Return to Forever
by Flightstorm
Summary: Elizabeth's sharing a free life with Jack, but dreams about Will Turner keep haunting her. A night of betrayal quickly changes everything, and soon Elizabeth finds herself on a dark, desperate path to save the life of her former lover. Quite angsty. AU AW
1. A Yearning Vision

**So… you've stumbled upon my story. Read on, then, but first, I'd like to thank my beta-reader, StephCalvino. You rock my socks!!  
**

* * *

It is possible to wake yourself from a dream, that colourful haze that comes to you during sleep; you just have to really, really want to return to the waking world. Sometimes you're able to pull yourself away, other times you just have to endure whatever your restless mind has in store for you. Usually it's a nightmare you're trying to get out of, or one would assume.

But this particular night-time vision was no nightmare. Yet she wanted to escape from it…

… And she wanted to stay all the same.

* * *

_She knows this place, once upon a time long forgotten. She's wandered through these trees, danced across this sand. A warm golden light is cascading through the green foliage of the palms above her head, dappling her much-too-thick dress. Absentmindedly she sits down on the soft sand beneath her and takes off the cumbersome shoes, peels away the luxurious silk stockings. Knowing how improper it is, but knowing that no one is there, she lifts her skirts to her knees, exposing her bare calves so they can feel the midday breeze._

_She sits there for a few moments, in a grove of palm trees, gazing down the path where she came. Even in a dream, she knows that she is waiting for someone. Who? a part of her questions, a piece of her mind not in the dream._

_Eventually she stands up again and slowly ambles to the small expanse of beach beyond the trees, where her footwear lies discarded. Gently her toes prod the sand, burned by the sun on top, but delightfully cool and damp underneath. Once more she glances back to the trees, but still no one is there. Feeling a waver of disappointment, she turns to the placid waves that are softly creeping upward, only to pause and fall back to the ocean. For a moment, she wishes they could take her with them, to that great sapphire world only inches from where she is standing, but nigh impossible to reach._

_Suddenly she feels the presence of someone behind her, and something swoops in her chest- it is the one she has been waiting for. Strong arms envelope her from behind, a comforting, familiar grasp in which she can lose herself in. She does nothing, just stands there within his embrace, the water whispering past their ankles, an immense, calm emotion settling upon her, one that she has not felt for a long time._

_Tender lips brush her sun-bleached hair, and her heart shivers at the mere prospect. He kisses the top of her head, her temple, her cheek, his breath lightly tickling her skin. The powerful emotion builds up even stronger inside her, and she turns to face him, to drink in his perfect face._

_The other part of her feels only terror, confusion, as she recognizes the other person. She knows this man, obviously, but she should not be here with him, not even in slumber; he is not the same man that is snoring next to her body in the waking world, that terrible, beautiful world that she once loved, now never wants to return to._

_No! Wake up! the sensible part of her says, but the other half, the one in the dream with the forgotten man, still stays, losing herself in the deep brown orbs and shy, childlike smile of her partner._

_Wake up. She must._

_And suddenly- reluctantly- willingly she does._

* * *

She remained still for many long moments, listening to the ragged, rum-scented breathing of her lover beside her on the rickety bed. After many fearful notions galloped through her mind, she craned her neck towards him and saw his familiar tanned face, unusually calm; sleep was the only world that her lover could look so peaceful. In waking he was a lively, loquacious type of character, someone who she'd always admire for that fact.

He mumbled something in his sleep, causing her to smile, but fear was still behind her eyes. Slowly, as not to wake him, she crawled out of bed and faced their cabin window, the glass panes dirty and swirled from all the ship's years at sea. A faint trace of pink ran along the horizon, promising a morning soon to come; she focused her eyes on this, but let her mind wander.

It wasn't the first time she'd had this dream, this vision of her and another person alone on a beach. But it was the first time she'd been able to see his face. A face she'd long since been trying to push away from her mind.

That wasn't her life now, she reminded herself. _This_ was her life, an existence of excitement and fear, of treasure and frustration, of passion and arguments. She had made a choice; that choice was what she wanted, and she would have no other. She loved the man snoring on the bed now, that she was certain of- any other feeling, any hint of infatuation she had felt towards the other man she'd all but banished from her mind.

Yes, of that she was certain, she told herself again.

Sighing once as the sky began to glow, Elizabeth Swann paced back to the bed she shared with Jack Sparrow, the roguish pirate she had given up everything for- everything but her heart. The heart she had forced away from another man, a man whose own heart she was sure was now broken.

But Elizabeth couldn't think about Will Turner now- not in the new life she had chosen.

That was how it would stay.

* * *

**Reviews are greatly appreciated, even if it's criticism- I'd like to know how I'm doing.**


	2. Only in Dreams

**Well, we've got some tough W/E shippers here. Read on, then, at your own risk.**

* * *

The black whip slashed across his back like an icy flame, igniting it with pain; he knew its touch all too well. But he would not cry out; not even when he was dead on the stone floor would he even let so much as a whimper escape his lips. They mustn't see his agony; he mustn't give them the pleasure on which they thrived.

It tore through his tensed shoulder blades once more, harder than before, the sharp nails woven throughout it adding to the torture like little claws, digging in the cuts. He arched his back and braced his palms against the dank prison walls even harder, as though he were trying to take in some of their support.

How many times had they done it? He wagered at least twenty…

… It was getting harder to remain standing… 23… 24… Keep standing… let them have a go…

His senses were becoming numb as the whip crisscrossed over another cut… 26… 27… They say it takes forty lashes to kill a man… After strike 30 the snakelike rope did not whistle through the air again, and he let his aching muscles go limp.

Bad mistake. It was then the burly, boar-like man who had held him during his flogging rammed a thick fist into his jaw, sending vibrations like thunder throughout his skull. The prisoner staggered, and the man landed another punch in his thin midsection before shoving him to the floor. Finally the prisoner lay still, his unsteady breath hissing through his teeth, unwilling to gather the strength to even raise himself to a kneeling position.

Dirty black boots were at his face, the end of the whip curled beside them, and he could hear a crisp, satisfied voice talking; he couldn't even try to listen due to the pain hammering in his jaw, back, stomach...

"Still not had enough, I see," the man looming over him said, his tone smooth, collected and even amused; the beaten prisoner gritted his teeth. "Interesting. That will make your fall, when it does come, even harder."

Slowly, achingly, the prisoner raised his bruised chin, locking his brown eyes with the dark gaze and leathery face of his torturer. "…Not… yet…" he seethed through his breath.

"Very well," replied the other man, turning away and signalling to his brawny accomplice. "Hobson will take you to your quarters." He smirked.

The prisoner did nothing, merely allowed himself to be roughly manhandled to his cell, somewhere down the dark, dismal corridors of the prison. Watching him go with interest, the other man paced to talk to a different figure who had witnessed the scene from a shadowy corner of the room.

"The lad is certainly hardy," commented the man in the shadows, "but I've seen a lot stronger; he'll break soon."

"One should hope so," responded the one with the whip, twisting it in his fingers. "but I, for one, rather enjoy the torturing process; inflicting pain is an interesting concept, especially when concerning…. old acquaintances to settle scores with."

"Do not speak to me about your paltry hobbies, Mercer," sneered the man, his voice suddenly colder than the dungeon air around them. "I have far more pressing matters to see to than your own pleasure. And I believe I asked you to personally see to the death of this pirate- and my wishes have not been fulfilled."

Mercer swallowed nervously and tightened his grip on the lash. "The vagabond will die eventually, I can assure you, my lord; but I think what really breaks a man is the process in which he dies, and how viciously it is dealt out."

The man in the dark nodded slightly. "I must agree with you there." As an afterthought he added, "Does he have any specific close companions? A family?"

"Apparently he's got a father out there, but we haven't caught him yet. And… at one point, he was engaged to some lass, but it must not have lasted, seeing as she hasn't come for him."

"So he was in love," rasped the lord, a mocking note in his words. "By now, I'm sure he must have learned that the affairs of the heart can break a man even quicker than the blows of a whip. Torture is an unusual art, as you say." His eyes darted to where the prisoner had been dragged away, "… and perhaps the worse form of it is that he has no love left worth living for."

* * *

But they were only partly right. The prisoner did have something to hold onto, something that urged him not to give up.

His dreams.

Sleep was hard to come by on the mouldy floor of his cell, suffering his untreated wounds, but eventually, he would be able to reach it. And what lay behind his closed eyelids and faraway mind was something that he could never hope to find again in the waking world.

That night he curled up, shivering, hugging his knees to his chest, doing his best to ignore the fresh gashes that laced across his back. He had to take his mind away, forget the stone jutting out beneath him, and instead soar to a place where coconuts fell from trees and pale sand was warmed by the Caribbean sun…

* * *

_In this place there is no suffering. The sky is as blue as a robin's eggshell, the sun like a newly opened flower. He can run, dart through trees, dance in circles- anything is possible here._

_Nimbly he picks his way through lush leaves and brushes past rough tree trunks; his feet, able to carry him now, know the path well. His heart knows the trail well._

_Finally, the thick flora starts to diminish, and the sand starts to spread out; just ahead is the ocean. And, of course, she is waiting…_

_This time she walks back to greet him, instead of accepting his usual surprise embrace. They meet midway, and he gathers her up in his arms, strong and muscular in the dream, pushing away the knowledge that she is forbidden to him. Her lips slowly, almost tentatively connect with his, and he lovingly accepts. It seems like so long since they've kissed properly._

_But now is not the time to do so. Something is tugging him back, some unwanted force tearing his arms off her slender body. He struggles against it, looking with panic into her brown gaze, trying desperately to reach her._

_The darkness is gathering, and he tries to utter her name, but it is too late; the last thing he sees is her longing, confused eyes boring into him as he is twisted away by some iron-like, cruel arm in his conscience. He can hold her no more._

* * *

Desperately he tried to return to that blissful haven of sleep, to no avail; consciousness had truly arrived. He opened his eyes, his gaze blurred by the raw pain still felt in his back. Gently shutting them again, he conveyed in his mind the final image he'd lived through before awakening.

_Elizabeth…_

* * *

**Here's another thank you to StephCalvino! …By the way, if anyone noticed some references to the Princess Bride, that's intentional. Please review!**


	3. Fading and Clearer

**First off, I feel this chapter should come with a warning to W/E shippers, because there are going to be some things down there which you may not particularly like. But it would also be fair to warn any J/E shippers, if you've gone this far, because there's stuff **_**you**_** may not like as well. I'm just evil, aren't I?**

* * *

_Hopelessly she paces on the beach, stubbornly waiting for him to come, to see his gently smiling face and feel his rough hands caressing her body. Although his arrivals have been even more delayed recently, it's never taken him this long. Where could he be? What other dreams were more important than this?_

_You should be relieved, the sensible voice in her head said. You aren't even supposed to be here; you made the choice yourself. There is no love you still feel for him._

_She knows that; so why should she need him beside her? He'll come anyway, though; he always returns._

_And eerie breeze ruffles the plants that he should be trudging through now. No footprints have stirred up the sand of the path, save for her own. Only she had walked in this dream tonight. A cold stone of dread weighs heavily where her heart should be. He is not coming._

_No! He must! She flies down the path, kicking up the soft white earth. Brittle emerald leaves brush her cheeks, poking into her tear-pricked eyes. In desperation she calls his name, her cry echoing strangely throughout the grove, which has suddenly grown into a jungle; a great, tangled, endless jungle, both beautiful and terrible at the same time. Once she never would have dared step here- only he could walk through this tree-filled warren- she had only studied it from her safe position on the shore. She just wants to get out. She just wants him._

_"Where are you?" she cries. "I can't find you!" The cool wind carries and drowns her voice, all alone in this unknown place of dreams. He still does not appear._

_Finally, she stops running, letting tears flow freely, knowing that she is fighting for something that is no more. He is gone; no longer will he hold her, look into her eyes, kiss her… She may have more than she ever wanted back in the waking world, but in truth, she has nothing at all._

_Shadows obscure what little sight she has left; a power shoves her into a void where there is no warm sun, no lush palms; only an eternal darkness. She writhes in terror, stuck in a labyrinth between dream and awakening, and as she is consumed, she cries for him once more._

_Will!_

* * *

"My tremendous intuitive sense of the female creature tells me that you are troubled." 

Elizabeth was jerked out of her thoughts at the sound of Jack's voice and the weight of his arm slumped across her shoulders as he leaned next to the barrel she was perched on. Grinning, he looked at her expectantly. She pursed her lips; Jack had always been able to read her a bit too well.

"It's just that…" Should she tell him about the dreams? Had she woken him that morning with her thrashing? Perhaps he knew already…

Jack rolled his eyes bemusedly. "I see no fit reason as to why you should be surly when a trip to…" he paused dramatically- "…_Tortuga_ is in the very near future." He took a swig of rum from the bottle in his hand.

Annoyance prickled at Elizabeth; she had never liked that rum-soaked pirate port, with its drunken sailors and brassy wenches… the latter of which was sure to catch Jack's eye. "That's exactly it," she replied, using the present topic as an excuse. "Tortuga. Every time we go there, something… or some_one_ has always _distracted_ you."

Jack backed off a bit as she fixed him with an icy glare; it was going to be one of _those_ days, he could see.

"Well, er, you see love, there is a _remarkable_ amount of beautiful ladies in the world- none of them having anything on yourself, of course- and there's only one Captain Jack Sparrow; I've got to give them an equal share of the profits." He gestured to himself proudly.

Elizabeth, disgusted, jumped up off the barrel and stalked away. True, Captain Jack Sparrow may have been charming and animated, and an extremely good-looking man, one that she couldn't help falling for, but under those qualities, there were definite flaws, flaws that she often tried to overlook; he was selfish, uncouth, and changed interests as easily as a hummingbird in a field of flowers, and the problem was, he didn't seem to be too bothered by it. He was so different from the quieter, determined Will…

Before she could get away, Jack quickly darted in front of her, blocking her path. "But," he continued, "This time, I swear, on pain of death, I shall not so much as glance at another womanly presence other than that of your own, and shall instead devote my attention to the abundance of rum and the essential dealings of serenading you all night long. Savvy?" Still clutching the bottle of rum, he wrapped his arm around her waist, flashing a roguish smirk.

Elizabeth couldn't help it; she smiled back, caressing his shoulders and scratchy dreadlocks. She loved it when Jack talked like that; it made her feel more confident about her decision to stay with him. "We're square."

With that, Jack pressed her closer to him and passionately bestowed a kiss, which Elizabeth gladly received. His encounters were so fiery, so exhilarating, so wrought with lust and desire, unlike the soft, affectionate kisses she and Will shared in the past… and in the dreams. Embracing Jack all the more fervently, she shoved those memories to the back of her mind, ready to be contemplated later. Right now, it was just Jack Sparrow, and the strange wonders of Tortuga ahead.

It wouldn't do good to dwell on what was lost now.

* * *

_Where is that rum-soaked bastard?_ Elizabeth angrily tried to blaze a course through the crowded maze of the Tortuga tavern, her gaze combing over the mottled faces of sailors; her Sparrow's kohl-lined eyes and golden smile weren't among them. She had walked into this place side-by-side with him, trying to avert his attention from the low-cut dresses and suggestive glances of the opposite gender. One of them in particular, a pretty blonde wench, had caught his interest a little more than Elizabeth felt comfortable with; the female pirate had been sure to throw the prostitute the most scathing glower she could muster as she led Jack away. 

But now Elizabeth couldn't find him anywhere; he wasn't at the bar, bartering over another mug of rum, or seated at one of the weathered tables, exchanging falsehoods with an acquaintance. More importantly, he wasn't with _her_, as he had promised.

Wait, was that him? … No, it was just someone else with unusually thick hair like his. Perhaps by that table… but she'd already looked there. Unless… a staircase came into view, the staircase which led to the rooms of the inn.

_No… _he promised_…_

Elizabeth's mind was frantic, but her feet carried her slowly, pushing her past a large bloke who had another man in a headlock; she ignored them both. She wanted to know Jack's whereabouts, but the knowledge that he had betrayed her, yet again, would be too much to bear when it hit her. Taking a breath, she paused on the fifth step, the sallow candles sending flickering figures in a ghostly waltz on the wall. Should she even bother?

She had to know.

Much too soon, the door to their bedroom loomed in front of her. Placing a sea-worn hand on its rough wood, she leaned into its musty stability and listened.

Behind the timber came a girlish giggle and a deep, slurred voice commenting back lewdly… a voice she knew all too well. A voice only supposed to be saying those things to her; he was doing actions only meant to be done with _her_… She should have been the woman in their room with him, but here she was instead, on the opposite side of an entrance, a bystander to his deception.

The cold effects of treachery trickled down her spine like an icy rain. Her mind was spinning, her vision blurred by oncoming tears and a disbelieving bewilderment. Tearing her ear away from the door, away from the terrible sounds, she pelted down the hallway, the battered planks creaking beneath her feet. Her thoughts could bring up no word other than _betrayal, betrayal, betrayal_…

She kept running even after she was out of the pub, past the inebriated pedestrians mulling around the streets, out of the sight of the teeming harbour. Once on the outskirts of town, in a secluded beach where only an abandoned dock stood forlornly in the water, did she finally stop trying to escape. Utterly beaten in spirit, she sank to the ground by a discarded crate, tears dropping without restraint from her weary eyes.

How foolish she had been to love him. How childish to think that he might have returned that love. Everything was wrong, everything… She was bonded to a man who had never loved her… every word exchanged, every night spent together had been nothing more than a feeble lie, a tale which would be told only when he wanted to hear it. Her soul was no more precious to him than that of the blonde lass he had winked at in the pub. She was nothing, meaningless, a lost governor's daughter with barely a name to add to her credence.

Elizabeth Swann had no truth left to follow; if she couldn't fathom her heart, then she couldn't trust anything.

* * *

… **Now that was hard to write, and I think most of you know what I'm talking about…**

**Here's thanks to the awesome reviewers:**

**StephCalvino  
Shani8  
Smithy  
Kchan88  
purplediamond7  
PirateAngel1286  
MTVbabe11  
williz  
Peace Like a River**


	4. Slipping Away

**Before we get going, I'd like to talk about Jack, and how he is portrayed here. Don't get me wrong- I love Jack Sparrow, and enjoy his quirky personality, but for this particular story, he needed to come across as something of an antagonist and a womanizer, as has been hinted in the films. But no need to worry, I don't plan on making him a villain! My deepest apologies if I have offended Jack-lovers in any way.**

**By the way, I have little knowledge of pirate ships during this time, so, if any historical inaccuracy is noticed, please let me know. Right, then, I've bugged you long enough- carry on!**

**------- **

The embers of dawn had just started to glint over the horizon by the time Elizabeth finally faced the streets once more, ready to stay strong in spite of what Jack had done to her. Deep down she knew she could never feel the same way about him, but the determined part of her urged her to confront him, find the true extent of his love- see if it was really existent.

However, Elizabeth was still afraid. Of what? Maybe it was how he would react, or rejection, living a life without love. Perhaps, most likely, she feared the knowledge that she had made the wrong choice…

But it _hadn't_ been the wrong choice, she said to herself as she slowly paced through Tortuga, automatically straying away from street-side brawls. Didn't she long for the freedom of the sea, the dangerous possibilities? She'd wished for that ever since she'd been a little girl, curled up under a lacy coverlet as a woman's soft voice told of legends of pirates and treasure. Jack Sparrow could have been the breathing form of the songs she'd whispered in the fog, in the forecastle of the Dauntless, more than ten years ago. Choosing to side with him granted Elizabeth that kind of storybook life.

Ah, those tales… high adventure… dashing sailors… storybook love…

An image of amorous eyes and a subtle smile suddenly flashed in her memory.

Storybook love… what did it really mean, anyway?

She'd been so lost in reminiscence, when her eyes finally cleared she noticed her feet had carried her to the harbour. There were the usual sailors milling about the docks, some unloading barrels of goods and bundles of grubby cloth from their ships, others just merely inquisitive, gathering where the latest tales of interest were sure to emerge. Elizabeth had never been one for gossip- she had hated having tea with the nosy old ladies in Port Royal, back when she was known as a governor's daughter. As of late, what really caught her attention at the Tortuga quay was the medley of pirate vessels gathered near the port- varieties of large frigates, smaller barques, and sleek schooners- seeking refuge from the restrictive waters in the world of diminishing piracy.

Indeed, as Elizabeth took in the ragged sails and weathered spars of the ships at anchor, it was evident to her trained eye how bad things had really gotten for the pirates. She might not have ever seen this town in its prime, but she could tell that things had become even grimmer since she had first gone on the account. The plunder was not as fruitful, the ships seemed weaker, the men more haggard. Life of the sweet trade was dwindling. A growing sense of loss settled in her stomach and remained there, like an un-melting block of ice.

One ship in particular caught her eye amongst the sparse others. Amidst the reminders of harsh times, it was comforting for her to stop and revel in the beauty of it. She was a small sloop, double-masted, with a fore-and-aft rig, not great for hefty cargo but apt for speed. Although not as foreboding and magnificent as the _Black Pearl_, there was a sort of charm about her; probably Jamaican-built, judging from the red cedar her wood seemed to be. Above the mizzenmast fluttered a clumsily sewn flag, an insignia of a flame in its centre.

For a few moments Elizabeth merely stood there, watching the piece of cloth tremble forlornly in the air like a butterfly, a single spark in the murky dawn. Bravely alone, hopelessly alone…

A strange feeling suddenly bristled along her shoulder blades, and she instinctively knew she was being watched. Quickly she turned her chin to the larboard side of the sloop; a man was standing there, staring back at her, oddly familiar… Erect position, wisps of dark hair about his face, a long black coat swathing around his ankles…

Elizabeth's heart leapt to her throat in a swoop of recognition and disbelieving joy. Will?

From her position on the nearby dock, she could see a surprised look cross the man's face. "Miss Swann?" he called in a deep, hoarse voice, leaning along the railing of the ship.

Slowly Elizabeth sauntered closer to the ship, finally able to see the man's face, hear his voice properly. Now it was clear who he was; not Will, but his father, "Bootstrap" Bill Turner. At a distance, she had easily confused them, but looking at the veteran pirate more directly, she could tell the differences between father and son. Bill was paler- most likely than not a result of his time spent on the _Dutchman_- his face lined with coming age, his hair finally stating to acquire tinges of grey. More or less, he was an older version of Will; the real dissimilarity was the eyes, round and pale blue, unlike the dark eyes of his son. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably; seeing Bill again was another painful reminder of what she had done to Will about two years ago, when she had chosen Jack as her heart's destination.

But Jack had betrayed her; she could no longer be considered his. Eventually she would talk to him, but right now, standing athwart the sloop, there was an undeniable sense of wonder and determination welling up inside her. Recollections of the dreams flew through her conscience, and she thought of seeing Will again. It could all be a matter of merely slipping away; she could find him. Swallowing once, Elizabeth answered Bill's call.

"Mr Turner?"

A wry smile twitched at the corners of Bill's mouth. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long while. What brings you here, my lady?"

"I was about to ask the same of you," answered Elizabeth, not willing to draw the conversation to Jack.

"I'm here for the same reason everyone else is here, I'm afraid," said Bill, gesturing to the surrounding ships. "To seek a safe place to hide, at least for a while."

Another person who had been inspecting the boat's capstan stepped up beside him, curious as to whom he was talking to. At first Elizabeth didn't recognize the figure, but an instant later it clicked it her mind; it was Anamaria, the feisty female crewmember of the _Black Pearl_, who had threatened to hand her over to Barbossa during the battle on the _Interceptor_. There wasn't any of that hostility in Anamaria's features now, only interest at seeing Elizabeth in Tortuga, donning breeches and a man's waistcoat.

"You're that governor's daughter, aren't ya?" Anamaria asked.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together sorrowfully. "At one time I could have been called as such." She glanced up at Bill again, trying to peer behind him, but no, she wasn't familiar with any of the crewmembers tending to the sloop now; the one she was looking for wasn't among them. The question was pressing against her throat, urging her to voice it, and, releasing a shaky breath, she finally asked, "Where's your son?"

Sorrow clouded Bill's features. A moment of silence passed, broken only by the clamour in the milieu around them; then he spoke to Elizabeth again, defeat raw in his tone.

"Will's in trouble."

-------

He knew his strength was fading, like sunlight being obscured by winter clouds. Pain gripped every part of his body, numb and relentless. His tongue, dry and coated with grime, sat lifelessly in his mouth, deprived of the warm weight of nourishment. He was starving, so very hungry, the empty feeling in his stomach surrendering only to the clench of nausea and fever.

Rarely would he try to move, wanting to fight the blackness that surrounded him, but his hands, scarred and feeble, could not support him; sometimes he could not even distinguish the hand as his own, he didn't register where he was, he did not even know his own name…

It was even impossible to escape to that small place of hope; dreams were wrought with anguish and eternal shadows, sightless faces, voices like a chilling wind howling in his ear. He couldn't even see her face anymore, he didn't remember it; there was nothing but darkness, and, in the midst of the nightmare, he was just along the edge of it, staring out onto a fountain of silvery-black water that was beckoning him to give in to the obscurity. Icy rivulets fell about ebony shadows, cavorting in an enchanting and ominous dance, a tango of death. Deep down he knew he must not step closer to the flickering water- he had to hold on, but wanted to let go, slip into demise, the way a leaf takes to the breeze.

He was dying, trapped in the void between everlasting sleep and the soar of life, no voice calling him back. At this point, he didn't really care; all he wanted was for this agony to end.

With a shuddering intake of breath, the man once known as Will Turner fell away to unconsciousness, his final thought an aching wish: _if only I could have held her one last time…_

_------- _

**Questions? Comments? Please notify the author by filling out a review and depositing it in the lilac-coloured box below.**


	5. Reasons and Reasoning

**So sorry for the delay! The most recent instalment in the PotC saga threw me a bit off-guard in terms of writing, so it took me a while to get back in a right frame of mind. As you can see, this story is, thankfully, very alternate-universe, meaning it's different from the AWE we saw in theatres. Things will finally be explained in this chapter, so I hope it clears up any confusion.**

Elizabeth didn't know exactly why she'd stepped aboard the sloop- the _Firebrand_, it was called- but somehow, she had found her way to the dim cabin on the vessel, clasping a cup of grog over a wobbly table with Bootstrap and Anamaria, a single lantern burning on its surface. The ship was still in the harbour, she was still in Tortuga, but somehow, she felt so removed, separate from the port; a part of her knew that she could never return to the life she had led for the past two years, that Jack was gone to her. She had resigned herself to but one mission, a single question.

"What happened to him?" There was no way Elizabeth could bring herself to speak his name.

Bootstrap fondled the rim of his mug with worn fingers as he chose his next words. "Will did what he always felt he had to do; he fought. Fought, and fell all the harder."

"As expected," added Anamaria wryly, her face drawn into something like exasperation and pride.

Elizabeth couldn't meet their eyes, and instead fastened her gaze upon the weak russet mixture of her untouched drink. In her mind she could see that furrowed brow, that confident stance, a sharp cutlass clenched in a firm hand, steadfastly facing an invisible foe. Who?

"Could you go back to the beginning?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly. "To what happened after he… after we parted?" She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear, but the knowledge had to be gained.

Sighing, Bootstrap gulped some grog and leaned over the table. "You mean after Jones was killed? After that Admiral of Beckett's took his place on the _Dutchman_?"

With a pang, Elizabeth remembered James Norrington, who had been the one to replace Davy Jones after his death, binding himself to the service of Calypso. It was not a fate she would have wished upon anyone, but thankfully, Norrington had willingly accepted it; he probably knew it was the only path left for him. It did not seem to suit him being a pirate, and he no longer felt content wearing the uniform of an officer under Beckett's command; not to mention the fact he was physically dead, and would not have been able to do anything else in the living world otherwise. Through the will of Calypso, he had been resurrected, and with the help of Jack Sparrow and Will Turner, had managed to stab the heart of Davy Jones. With the former Dutchman captain defeated, Norrington took up the helm, but he did not rejoin the battle that was waiting out of the maelstrom; he chose instead to leave forever the world that had been so cruel to him and join the land of the dead, as was intended for the captaincy. As the _Flying Dutchman _submerged into the ocean's storm, the _Black Pearl_ pulled away from it, leading the other pirate ships to face the East India Trading Company… where they had been vanquished.

Blinking away the events surrounding the Dead Man's Chest, she nodded to Bootstrap, urging him to tell the tale.

"Well, I was freed from my service, as you can see." He gestured to his face, formerly blemished by the sea's fauna. "Will and I were reunited, and he wanted to go off. Find a ship of our own. I was planning to join Jack on the _Pear_l, or maybe stay on the _Dutchman_ if there was nowhere else to go, but Will… couldn't stay." Bootstrap awkwardly glanced at Elizabeth, and guilt simmered in her stomach. She knew perfectly well why Will refused to stay on the same ship as Jack and her.

"That's when they came 'cross me," said Anamaria, joining in the conversation, "and my ship."

"How did you get it?" Elizabeth asked, indicating the cabin walls around them. "I had thought you would have stayed on the_Black Pearl_."

For some reason, Anamaria's shoulders stiffened. "Jack owed me a boat, he got me one, and I left." She did not look at Elizabeth as she said it.

Elizabeth remembered hearing that Anamaria hadn't been very fond of Jack, so she assumed that was the problem and decided not to impress the matter further. "And you three eventually came across one another."

"A right good bit of fortune that was," said Anamaria with a nod. "The _Firebrand_'s a fine boat, but I needed crewmembers, and they weren't showin' up. Too scared, maybe, or ashamed of sailin' under a woman. Pretty much the only good man to show up was Silas, my old mate, who's around here somewhere. I lost most of the others to the East India Company…" Her voice fell somewhat.

Elizabeth glanced down sadly at the mention of the battle that had destroyed piracy, all those months ago. Shuddering, her memory coaxed forward ships, swathed in flame and smoke, sinking to the darkest depths of the maelstrom surrounding them. So much fog, and so many bodies… _Best not think about that._

Anamaria continued. "I needed a crew; the Turners needed a ship. We joined forces, Bootstrap as a first mate, and Will and I as co-captains."

Something strange flared up in Elizabeth at the word "co-captains", and at the unusually fond look that had crossed Anamaria's face. The thought of Will, becoming close to someone else… particularly when that someone else was another woman…

Bootstrap's rough voice shook her out of her oddly jealous thoughts. "I'm sure you know the East India Company, Miss Swann." Elizabeth angrily dug her nails into the table in response. "Still going strong. Of course, Will wasn't ready to accept our last defeat; he wanted to fight again, and thought he could urge others to feel the same way. Someway or another, word spread, of one last chance, a final hope.

"The Company's time was divided in the American colonies; if we could break them there, perhaps their influence would weaken elsewhere they lurked. Our makeshift fleet wasn't much, but we had ourselves a good number of strong frigates and whatnot to fight, and sloops like this to make a quick getaway if needed. It was just unfortunate we couldn't have the _Dutchman_ or the _Pearl_ on our side. I believe we tried to contact you at one point."

They had? Elizabeth hadn't known. There had always been various papers scattering Jack's desk; the letter of summons must have missed her eye, if it had been there. But they had gone somewhere else instead, to try a bit of pillaging. "Our most recent excursion was to Africa," she said. "I don't believe our paths would have crossed."

"Perhaps not." Bootstrap stared into his remaining grog, light from the lantern's flame bleaching it a pale golden colour.

It was Elizabeth who decided to say the next inevitable words. "You failed in the battle."

"An understatement," Anamaria muttered through gritted teeth. "We were _destroyed_."

"Most ships were damaged beyond any hope of repair, some sunk to the bottom of the bay, others forced to be left adrift. Only the faster boats managed to get out of the wreckage; ours was one of them. There were so many men lost, and nearly all captains were either killed or captured; they were the important ones, see. But none were as important as Will. Somehow, it was known to Lord Spelford that he was our leader."

Spelford… the name didn't mean anything to Elizabeth at first, but she quickly recollected him as the man who had replaced Cutler Beckett as head of the EITC. She didn't know much about him, other than Jack had been sure to avoid any waters with him in the vicinity.

"Will was captured as we were forced to sail away," Bootstrap went on, his voice becoming raspy with regret. "And I now have reason to believe he was taken to that… that prison. Unlike Beckett, Spelford doesn't want the destruction of his enemies to be a quick one. He's been known to make his enemies … die as slowly and painfully as possible."

Elizabeth's insides burned in unexpected rage as she imagined Will, the gentle blacksmith apprentice, left to die in some dank prison cell in the middle of a sea. How long had he been there? Could he even still be alive? Fear prickled through her as she thought of his recent absences in her dreams. That couldn't have meant…

"Why are you here, then?" She set her mug down a tad more forcefully than she had intended to. "Why aren't you trying to save him?" Bootstrap closed his eyes in shame.

Anamaria suddenly stood up, the usual fire rekindling in her expression. "You don't think we haven't tried? These things need plottin', lass, and a fighting force, and a cause greater than one man's life. Besides," she continued, cutting off Elizabeth's chance of speaking back indignantly, "I didn't see you too keen on joinin' him a few months ago- oh _no_, too busy in Jack Sparrow's bed, aye?"

With a snarl, Elizabeth rose up to face Ana. "I have left Jack Sparrow. He betrayed me, and I have no wish to see him ever again!"

"Good," growled Anamaria. "At least one of his wenches has learned something." Shutting her eyes tiredly for a moment, she glared at Elizabeth once more and turned on her heel towards the cabin door.

"Let me join your crew," Elizabeth said suddenly, surprising even herself.

Ana's hand paused on the latch, and Bootstrap slowly rose from his stool. "What was that, Miss Swann?" he asked.

"I want to join your crew, aboard this ship, if you'll have me," responded Elizabeth, trying her best to sound strong. "I can help you come up with a plan to save Will, along with what other captains may be in that prison. If we're lucky enough, I daresay there's a chance to conquer the East India Trading Company once and for all. You forget." She meaningfully stroked the oriental weapon in its intricate baldric slung about her hip. "I was elected Pirate King once."

Bootstrap and Anamaria measured her up (the latter a bit more sceptically), looking at the slight woman before them, hard and angular, determined and alone. She had no greater chance at survival than either of them, but even in her youthful position, there was a grit and hopefulness that went beyond her twenty-one years. For a moment, she could be trusted.

"Welcome to the crew, Miss Swann," said Bootstrap.

Jack Sparrow had awoken to many hangovers and bleary mornings, but this one definitely ranked among the worst of them. He had an unbelievable headache, his mouth was dry and sticky, he could barely see straight, his eyeliner was smudged, and to top it off, the room didn't even have any bloody curtains over its window, letting forth a most undesirable band of sunshine across his face. Fluttering the heavy lids of his eyes and smacking his chapped lips a few times, he rolled over on his side to face the warm lump curled under the moth-eaten quilt beside him.

"Oi, Lizzie," he grumbled in greeting as his hand flopped across her back. "If I'd known the morning would be like this, I would have just remained in the most _pleasurable _activities of last night." He absentmindedly toyed with the silvery blonde curls atop her bare shoulders.

Hold on… Lizzie didn't have hair _that_ blonde… it was more of a grungy kind of light brown… and it wasn't washed that well either.

Gulping, Jack peered over the edge of the figure to see her face. Oh yes, a very pretty lass, to be sure, but most definitely, upon second glance, not his charming murderess.

Bugger.

She'd need a lot more than rum to forget this…


	6. Sunrise Reminisce

**Terribly sorry for the lull! You'd think because it's summer and all, that I'd write out the chapters sooner, but I guess not. Thank you to everyone for being so patient! I hope you all spent the weekend reading Deathly Hallows, hm?**

-------

Another nightmare, always entwined with darkness and endless warrens, impossible for her to escape, save for the fearful opening of an eye to the real world. No longer was he there. Sometimes she could sense a shadow, his presence, but she never saw him truly. Sometimes she heard his voice, husky whispers in her ear, but it never had the soothing effect on her like it had during their courtship and happier dreams. He was always asking her _why_: Why had she left? Why hadn't she come? Why couldn't he have been enough for her?

Elizabeth evaded the dream by snapping open her eyes in a panic, remaining rigid on her hammock for a few moments, as one always does after an unsettling nightmare. She swallowed once, as if trying to repress her unease, and absentmindedly brought a willowy hand to the soft, tired skin beneath her eyes, only to find tears upon her fingertips. Rubbing the moisture away, she swung her legs over the edge of the hammock, slipped her feet into her boots, and padded past the _Firebrand_'s sleeping crewmembers to the trapdoor and outside, above deck.

Morning was on its way; the sky was a pale grey-yellow, with slivers of ochre sunlight along the horizon. Practically no one else was awake yet, save for one burly figure idly coiling a line of rotted cable into a neat beehive shape- Silas, Anamaria's trusted boatswain.

Silas was a muscular bear of a man, with swarthy skin that bore many scars, one of which was a particularly noticeable disfigurement that sliced across his left eye, giving him a rather ugly and frightening appearance. He rarely spoke or smiled, preferring the company of ships and the ocean; at least they didn't press you for questions. Few people really knew of the clever intellect hidden beneath his rough exterior; Anamaria did, and that was why Silas was so fond of her. It was this old seadog that had helped her, Bootstrap, and Elizabeth concoct a plan to save Will and the other hostages of the Turkish prison (which, inevitably, was now owned by the East India Trading Company).

The Plan… Elizabeth shuddered inwardly as she looked at Silas, thinking of the plot contrived over the past week or so. In truth, it was relatively simple in structure, but it all depended on her part in it, and how well she could pull the job off. It wasn't simple at all, but downright dangerous, and if she made too many mistakes, everything would be for naught.

-------

Elizabeth was to pose as a guard, inconspicuously working inside the very prison itself as she learned its secrets, and how its walls could be penetrated. As she carried this out, she would try to find Will and a way to free him… if he was still alive, which they had no way of knowing for sure. They tried not to think about that as they worked out the rest of the Plan.

Bootstrap, Anamaria, and the rest would remain on the _Firebrand_, lurking a safe distance away as they tried to find other ships to recruit in the breaching of the prison. And every couple of days, one of them would cautiously row out in a longboat and check for Elizabeth's messages, which she would leave in a coffin to be adrift at sea. She would tell them when it was time to attack, and how they would go about doing so.

But it definitely wouldn't be an easy matter at all. Any section of the Plan could go wrong, and if Elizabeth were caught… Bootstrap realized this, and tried persuading her one of those nights to let her vital post fall to someone else, such as himself or Anamaria.

But Elizabeth wouldn't have any of it. "Bootstrap, I know you want to save your son," she had tried explaining as soothingly as she could, "but although you're a knowledgeable man, you're not a young one. The conditions in these prisons are harsh, and you might have to flee or hide at any moment if things don't go as intended."

Anamaria had softly put a hand on Bootstrap's slumped shoulder then. "Besides, we need ya wit' th' ship. These swabs don't know abaft from forrard without ya tellin' them so. And I couldn't go either," she added, gesturing to her dark face. "Doubt they'd fall for it."

But Bootstrap had still persisted. "I can't let the lass go alone."

"Then we'll enlist a couple of crewmembers that are up to the job," replied Elizabeth. "Please, Mr Turner." She had looked him deep in the eyes at that point, trying to make him- and herself- realize her cause. "I need to do this."

Bootstrap took in the raw guilt and determination in her gaze, a look he had seen in Will so often before, and finally understood.

"If you must, Elizabeth," he said, using her name for the first time. "If you must."

-------

Elizabeth stared out upon the ocean as she watched the sun slowly rise, clasping her arms around her in loneliness. She had done this so often on the _Black Pearl_, before Jack awoke and the day began. It felt like only yesterday she had been cheerfully kissing her pirate captain, carefree and lustful. Now here she was, estranged from Jack and up to her neck in a plot to free her once-fiancé, the long-forgotten Will Turner. Why? Elizabeth told herself that she had no other choice after the _Black Pearl_, and that she was doing it for Bootstrap and Anamaria, but that unruly part of her brain was saying otherwise: she wanted Will, and wanted him badly.

_No! I have put him behind me! _Elizabeth clenched her teeth together as her mind battled with itself. _I don't need him, Ana and his father do, I'm doing it for them..._

A hollow creak behind her made her spin around on her heel timidly, but it was only Silas, lurching towards the forecastle. He paused, curious at her edginess, his good eye looking at her with such soberness that it made Elizabeth feel as though he were reading her thoughts, like they were words on a scroll.

"You… you're up early," she murmured lamely. Silas was always up before the rest of them.

"Like to see sunrises," came Silas' gruff response. Elizabeth nodded in agreement before he continued, to her surprise. "You were thinking about him."

Elizabeth didn't need to ask who; she wanted to know how Silas could have known. Apparently his undamaged eye saw more than he let on. And, for some reason, she felt like she could tell the old sailor anything, and he would understand.

"…Will he even want me?" she whispered, a lump forming in her throat.

Silas answered her question with one of his own. "Did you leave him, or did he leave you?"

Elizabeth's lips parted, but her voice would not work. Silas blinked, a look of understanding on his deep brown face, and ambled away, leaving Elizabeth to her memories…

-------

_A cold, grey rain surrounded everything, forming a partnership with the raging ocean to drown all those aboard the ships. With agonized slowness, the _Flying Dutchman_ and the _Black Pearl_ trod through the black waves to meet in battle, recklessly embracing the storm. Lightning flashed in the gradually diminishing space between them, and, suddenly, the furious waves swirled as one into a single immense tornado of wrath- the maelstrom had begun._

_The two infamous ships finally met, and the melee began, but neither could hope to match the untameable fury of Calypso as she unwaveringly intensified the maelstrom. Cannonballs and crewmembers from both sides swung through the gale towards their enemy in the hope to wreak some damage. Few were succeeding, so far._

_Aboard the _Pearl_, Will Turner brought his blade up to meet the mass of sea-life that was a _Flying Dutchman_ sailor, slicing through seaweed and barnacles with a sickening crunch. Snarling in pain and outrage, the creature stabbed towards him with almost electrifying speed, and it was all Will could do to parry the attack. In one fluid motion he slashed his cutlass into and across his opponent's belly, sending the cursed crewmember reeling. Seizing his chance, Will dove across the deck, trying to get to a rope, so he could swing across the watery vortex- and bumped into Elizabeth Swann._

_They froze for a few moments, staring at each other through the rain, forlorn thoughts echoing through both their heads; it was Will who broke their visual bond and ducked past Elizabeth and stepped upon the railing, his hand fumbling for a grasp on a rain-slicked cord._

_"What are you doing?" Elizabeth cried. "You'll be killed!"_

_Will glanced back at her. "I mean to free my father."_

_"You can't!" Elizabeth called back, stepping closer. "He's too far gone, Will; I've seen him."_

_"I made a promise," said Will, looking away from her, towards the _Flying Dutchman.

_Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but an impending _Dutchman_ crewmember drew her attention away as she tumbled to avoid his blows. He very nearly killed her, if Will hadn't leapt from the rail, clashed his sword against the crewmember's weapon, and warded him away, finally sending him over the _Black Pearl_'s edge and into the whirlpool below. Panting, Will turned to face Elizabeth._

_"And what about me?" she asked, her voice sounding small in the gale. "Didn't we have our promise, too?" She reached inside the chest of her tunic and drew out a thin chain, upon which a tiny silver band hung._

_Instinctively Will grabbed at the string around his neck, his fingers touching the identical ring amongst the other trinkets. In a heartbeat he remembered his almost-wedding as he glanced at it, grey raindrops flecking the metal. An uncharacteristic anger burned inside him, and he looked up at Elizabeth fiercely._

_"We _did_ have a promise," he growled lowly, "but it wasn't me who decided to break it."_

_"What are you talking about?" Elizabeth shouted, running up to him and grabbing his arm. "Will, I love you!"_

_Will laughed- a cold laugh that had never before issued from his throat, scaring even himself. "Liar," he said hoarsely. "You love Jack."_

_Elizabeth, horror-struck, didn't reply. There were no words she could form. An attraction, an overwhelming lust was what she felt for Jack Sparrow; growing stronger, yes, but it would never be equal to the bond she and Will shared. How could she tell him that? How could he understand?_

_Will gazed at her, the rain dripping into his eyes off his furrowed brow. Mistaking her silence as proof to his statement, he jerked his arm away from her grip. "Seems as if we've both made our choices, then. I won't hold you back any longer." With that, he turned his back on her and took a hold of the rope once again, baring his teeth. But beneath his anger, his heart was hopelessly breaking._

_Elizabeth was stunned, unable to move or speak. Will was leaving her; he had _left_ her. And she hadn't even tried to make him understand. In one terrible blow of emotion, tears began to mingle with the icy rain upon her cheeks._

_"Don't leave me!" cried Elizabeth, diving forward to grab the rope he was holding. "Will, please! I need you!"_

_It was Will's turn to remain silent as he carefully pried her slender hand from the cable, not meeting her gaze. That was when Elizabeth understood; he didn't want her._

_"Fine, then!" Elizabeth shrieked. "Go!" In her confused rage she shoved him away from her. Will, bewildered, unfolded a gentle hand towards her face, but she slapped it away. "GO! I hate you, Will Turner! I hate you!" She tipped her head down, futilely covering the tears._

_Deep down, he knew she didn't mean it, but only his shattered heart controlled him now. He braced himself around the rope and departed the _Black Pearl_, fleeing his grief, leaving Elizabeth. As his lithe body flew through the tempest, he kept his eyes on her crumpled form, until the downpour concealed her. Then, it took all the courage in his soul to look away._

_The bond of Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann had finally broken._

_-------_

_Did you leave him, or did he leave you?_

Alone and unsure, Elizabeth couldn't find an answer to that in her own heart.

-------

If there was anything to be said about Lord Reginald Spelford, it was that he was a patient man. He rarely made rash decisions; choices were calculated carefully, ensuring the path that would make his enemies hurt as much as possible. Sometimes it couldn't be bothered with, though- one such as he had to save his power for more pressing matters- and at that moment, the issue of piracy was treading toward that verdict of mediocrity. The sea rovers' days were soon to be over, thanks to the newly acquired Turkish prison.

Spelford was in this fortress now, pacing in the only reasonably comfortable room in the place. Whenever he decided to drop by, this could be called his personal chamber. A few red velvet chairs were gathered in various necessary areas, along with an adorned desk, smooth stone fireplace, and intricate-designed scarlet rugs. Spelford like fancy things, easily apparent from his heavily embroidered attire. A curly black periwig topped off the look nicely, and Spelford felt very fine indeed when dressed in his best garb.

But he didn't really need a distinguished appearance to command attention; Lord Spelford had an authority all his own. He didn't have to shout or use his temper to control; quite the opposite. At times, he possessed a rather eerie quality of calm confidence, and a cold voice, and this could be even more frightening than if he had yelled instead. Even when he was alone, as now, Spelford rarely showed his emotions. But one needn't be a mind-reader to know that he was pleased now.

The pirates were finished; he was sure of that. Absentmindedly he twirled his fire poker around, trailing a faint spiral of smoke as he paced in front of the sunrise seeping in through his window. He paused, lost in self-assured thoughts as he glanced at the sizzling insignia of a "P" on the end of the poker- a pirate brand. As if on cue, a yell of pain dimly echoed through the stone walls. The corner of Spelford's mouth rose ever so slightly; true, they didn't really need to brand the pirates, seeing as they would die in the prison anyway, but why not have a bit of fun with the torturing process? Perhaps the lapdog Mercer had some good ideas after all.

Sticking the end of the poker back into the fireplace, Spelford subtly noted the Caribbean pirate leaders left behind these walls: Black Smoke James; P. Marley; the Dread Pirate Roberts; Captain Turner, to name a few. Let the African Company have the Old World; the East India would have the New. Really, the only Caribbean pirates left out there that he was vaguely concerned about were Sparrow and Swann, but the _Black Pearl_ was being tracked down; their wings would be pinioned, and they'd fall, just like the others.

Little did he realize that one of the birds was flying closer than he'd imagined.

-------

A few leagues away, Elizabeth Swann waited as the _Firebrand_ sailed towards the shadows of her past.

"Here I am, Will," she spoke softly into the wind. "I'm coming."

-------

**Hmm... I foresee a certain reunion in the next chapter...**

**Many thanks to StephCalvino, of course, and also:**

**Shani8, Smithy, Kchan88, purplediamond7, PirateAngel1286, williz, Peace Like a River, emily, luckyloser07, ross ithil wen, Heryn-o-Eryn-Duin, Brilliant5, Eagleschick86, Sarah Jo, DarkAngelmi818, oh-you-pretty-things, acacia59601, geeekindork, JTLfan, honestly dishonest, lateBloomer04, dustey131, butterflygoodbye, Nicole-Kazan, Morbidmuch, and Lin (by the way, it's set after AWE, if it had ended JE, that is). Your reviews are great!**


	7. The Fortress in the Precipice

Can I say how sorry I am for not updating in so long?! I apologize tremendously to anyone who's been bearing with me and patiently waiting, you in particular, purplediamond7…

* * *

The fortress seemed to be made almost entirely out of stone, carved into the precipice. Black, icy stone, the kind that breathes a cold fog into the chest of anyone nearby, white fingers stroking ribs, searching hearts. It was as if the walls themselves knew that there was a trespasser about to penetrate them. 

A trespasser named Elizabeth Swann.

She shivered in the dory as it bobbled closer to the prison on its cliff, absurdly small and unimposing. But that was a good thing; with the vessel's lack of size, there would be less of a chance of being seen. This way, she might not have to draw courage from inside herself, because Elizabeth was sure there was none to be found. How could she step inside that place and face him again?

The boat continued to glide through the water, breaking the waves in suddenly glass-like surface. Feeling a bit paranoid, she tore her eyes away from the ocean, as if afraid to find a reflection in its depths. She looked tired and dirty, dressed in a uniform, but it wasn't enough to make her feel truly disguised. Then again, it wasn't the guards she was trying to hide from.

A shoulder bumped against Elizabeth as her partner shifted beside her. His name was Jeremiah Trilby, the ship's surgeon. Young and dusty-haired, he was a very valuable member to Anamaria's crew, for there were few others that had his healing talent. He reminded Elizabeth of a rabbit, timid, and quick to escape, so it was hard to make him speak up. Jeremiah was the kind of person who blended in with the background, an object in the scenery; even if he had been the only person standing in a room, eyes would have still roamed over him, a mere bystander of no importance. Elizabeth had learned important methods and techniques from him, which could very well save Will's life. It was this _Firebrand_ crewmember that would accompany her to the prison, helping her with the difficult task ahead.

Closer, closer… They needed to find a door, or a line of soldiers to sneak into…

Bootstrap, the one bringing the dory to and from the prison, glanced back at her. Did he see anything?

Elizabeth combed the premises, searching the stone… Jeremiah's willowy finger pointed a way before she found one herself. There, in the side of the prison wall, surrounded by the dark rock of the cliff, was an old, wave-beaten door, not too far from the sea's spray. It was anyone's guess as to where it led, but it was better than strolling through the main entranceway.

They climbed through the foaming water, the sea getting rougher as it came closer to kissing the rock. In a way, this was helpful, because the white spurts connecting with the boat's side would conceal them, working to blend them with the night. But soon they would be soaked, and how would they be able to dry off once inside the fortress, so as to join the ranks without suspicion?

The rough edge of the cliff's bottom was beside them now, the dory nearly scraping against it. Being nearer to it, Elizabeth could see that it was not completely black stone at all, but sparsely littered with moss and skeleton-like scrub. No more than six metres away was the door to their plan.

A wave slapped against the dory, showering them with its brackish wetness. Elizabeth tried to blink away the seawater in her eyes as Bootstrap turned to face her and Jeremiah, water dripping from his curls.

"I leave you here," he managed to say before another surge of saltwater came upon them. "Take care and we'll keep a weather eye out for you." Elizabeth nodded, her heart thundering against her ribs. Jeremiah unsteadily rose from beside her, nimbly grabbing rough areas in the stone nearest them to climb up on. With a tip of his tricorne to Bootstrap, he stepped out of the boat and onto the slope.

Elizabeth tried to smile at the pirate, but how could she attempt to reassure him when she herself needed reassuring? Bootstrap seemed to understand, and gently laid a hand upon her arm. Feeling a pang of reminiscence for her own father, she clasped her hands around his and shook them slightly in a sort of handshake before leaving him and clambering onto the rock. Scraping her toes against footholds, she managed to pull herself over the side, sucking in her breath. When she was able to look back, Bootstrap was almost invisible in the surf surrounding him.

Jeremiah made a jerky motion with his hand, beckoning Elizabeth to follow him. Swallowing, she stepped forward, her hands brushing the wall of rock- and her foot slipped on moss, dangerously slick from the sea. A thrill of terror rushed through Elizabeth as she stumbled, but she quickly regained her footing and crept forward once more, this time keeping an eye for slippery patches.

It seemed to take forever, but finally she and Jeremiah reached the door, one shaky step at a time. As waves crashed over them like a parasol, the surgeon groped for the handle and shook it. It wouldn't budge, as expected. Elizabeth rummaged around in her small satchel, safely hidden in her baggy uniform. In a few seconds, she found a little twist of metal and handed it to Jeremiah. With a few wave-interrupted jiggles and pokes, the lock was coaxed open- and the door was able to creak inwards.

A dark corridor gaped in front of them, damp and swathed in shadow; Elizabeth doubted any torches had warmed these walls recently. Raising her chin as though in defiance, she strode into the dungeon. She may very well be trapped in this place, but she would not be a prisoner to her fear.

It could have been hours, but most likely a few minutes, when light finally managed to reach them. At first Elizabeth didn't believe the dim ghost of illumination, thinking it was just her imagination taunting her in the constricting blackness, but as they drew closer, the fire grew stronger- and so did their anxiety. They could hide no longer. Now they had to join in and become fortress guards.

Another passageway stretched out in front of the one they were in, the two meeting to form a cross. In a moment, clattering of footfalls could be heard, and Jeremiah glanced back at her; if the group was large enough, they would meld in with the back. Elizabeth felt a rush of desperate faith for the dimness, hoping it could veil the both of them.

They pressed themselves against the shadows, still damp from the sea, waiting… A line of EITC lower-ranking members paraded in front of them, not even bothering to peer into the darkness. How many were there? Enough. There were enough. Elizabeth and Jeremiah automatically held their breaths, preparing to step into the ranks. When no more men came, they leapt upon the chance and scuffled into place, standing as tall as possible, matching the guards stride for stride.

No one noticed.

-------

The rest of the night and the first few days passed in a blur for Elizabeth. She and Jeremiah parted ways early on, so most of her time so far was spent hiding and assimilating the ways of the prison guards, alone. But she'd been on her own before.

Playing the part of a dim-witted new recruit, she was finally forced to use a disguised voice to ask a burly man who looked somewhat in charge where her quarters were. Rolling his eyes, the guard pointed down a corridor across from them. Thanking him, Elizabeth asked him what position she should take tomorrow morning, hoping her words were the right ones.

"Patrol the north wing on this level," he grumbled, waving her away, the short conversation clearly finished. Giving a nod, Elizabeth went down the hallway he had mentioned first, another soldier pulling beside her.

"New, I presume?" the guard guessed, surprising Elizabeth so that she could barely bob her head. "It's a rather tiresome job, this is, but we've got to dispose of the bilge rats somehow. There aren't many of their brigs left to destroy now, I've heard." He smirked somewhat, as though he had said something amusing. "So, what's your name, lad?"

Elizabeth had already planned this, but the answer made her stutter nonetheless. "Elias Barlow," she finally said, using the name of one of the powder monkeys on the _Firebrand_.

"Then welcome, Master Barlow. If you ever have any questions, just ask upon Fletcher, because that's me. I've been here a while now, and someone's got to help the green ones." They were arriving at the sleeping quarters now, which was a large chamber filled with small wooden beds.

"Not much here," said Fletcher, "but I can tell you, it's better than what the prisoners have. Morning meal's at six," he added before turning away.

That first night was hard, but nowhere near the difficulty she would have to endure in the future. But Elizabeth wasn't to know this as she struggled to get comfortable on the stiff mattress, longing for the rocking of her hammock on the sea. Her mind did further work to keep her awake, wondering and worrying, and it was a very groggy and tired Elias Barlow who received a piece of johnnycake and some not-quite-warm tea for breakfast the next morning. She spent the first day peering into the cells of the lower north wing, trying to determine Will from among the prisoners without looking too suspicious. Upon her scrutiny, she realized how bad things were for these former men of freedom.

Broken was the only word Elizabeth could bring up to describe them. Some of them were barely fit to call alive, just mere shells of what was once a devious soul. Others were quite conscious, pacing or sitting in the corner of their cells, thinking about their bleak situation with grim expressions. A various few seemed to have gone mad, enraged at being trapped in such a cage until they perished. Most seemed left where they were to rot, but a few seemed to have been beaten, tortured, untreated scars marking their bodies. Many pirates deserved what was coming at them, but any gallows would be preferable to the torture these were enduring.

She saw no sign of Will at all that first day, but she had expected this. After all, how lucky would she have to have been to find him on first try? The second day Elizabeth went through the same procedure in a different part of the dungeon, looking for Will, and doing her best to listen to the words of the other guards. None of their conversations brought much interest to her, save for one:

"So, what captains have we got in here?"

"A few. Black Smoke James, he's dead now; Spelford was pleased about him. Rather bloodthirsty, you see. Ransacked some important ships, killed a lot of good men. He went down fighting up a storm, apparently, but he fell hard."

"Who else did we finish off?"

"One more, but I forget his name; Philip Marten, or something like that. The rest are well on their way, but they say the Dread Pirate Roberts is holding out strong. Quite annoying, really. But yes, the others- Flint and Turner- it shouldn't be long now."

"Let's hope so. They're the top men for a reason."

Who else would Turner be? Bootstrap had said Will was the leader of the second fight against the EITC, so he would most definitely be one of the major pirate captains caught. But Elizabeth couldn't brush away what else the soldiers had said… about how it shouldn't be long now. One didn't have to be a scholar to figure out the meaning of that.

She was running out of time. He was here, or at least he had been, and she had to find him. She _must_ find him.

By the end of the second day, a knot of anxiety had formed inside her, growing larger as she peered into empty cell after empty cell, precariously moving to and from different parts of the prison.

Keep walking, keep walking… stay at the same pace… Elizabeth could barely distinguish one man from the next, but there was one aspect that glaringly stood out at her: he wasn't here; maybe he wasn't anywhere in this forlorn, horrid place. They'd been too late. He was gone already.

And then she saw him.

Her eyes had initially roamed over him with the same hopeless, fading desperation that had arisen over all the other prisoners she'd seen. The crooked shape of what was once a strong human being showed no spark of individuality upon first glance, and only a moment's hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty was what made her double back. Even much later on in her life, she wouldn't have been able to say what caused her to do it. But turn back she did, and it was that small gesture that changed her life for good.

Her numb fingers slipped against the damp bars as her body fell against the cell door in disbelieving shock- but shock alone didn't even begin to cover the silent screaming, the buzzing, and the vortex thundering through her entire body at that moment. Elizabeth couldn't even let tears fall as she looked upon the man she'd thought she'd lost forever.

He was curled up in a corner in what she hoped was a sleeping position, and she clawed for the keys to open the cell. Common sense made her pause to look for any other guards, and fate was kind to her for once. With a shuddery breath, she turned to face Will Turner.

It took her a moment to realize that the only thing he was wearing was a pair of breeches; his feet, torso, and arms were completely bare. Any other time in the past, she would have been embarrassed to see him so sparsely clad, but modesty was the farthest thing from her mind when she saw the scars. Snaking up his back, curling around his ribs were the bloody remnants of wounds that had never had a chance to heal properly, undoubtedly left there by a whip; he'd clearly been terribly beaten many times. Bruises darkened the rest of his dirty skin like shadows, along his arms and on his face. Oh, his face! The once-handsome visage was sunken and almost angular, masked by injury and illness. A beard covered his jaw, very different from the trim moustache she'd been so used to. The dark, filthy curls of his hair fell into his eyes, completely obscuring them from her view. Those eyes… if only she could see them, then maybe she could tell that Will had come back to her…

A sob ripped from Elizabeth's throat, and instinct brought her hand to her mouth. Weakness quaked in her knees, and she sunk to the stone floor beside him, unable to tear her eyes away from the crumpled man before her. How could he possibly be Will? A sudden impulse made her tentatively reach forward to grab the still hand curled across the stone. Will's hands… she remembered them like yesterday, the rough palms softly caressing her skin, the hardened fingertips brushing her face, traveling down to her chest… This hand was unquestionably his.

Elizabeth stroked further up his arm, inwardly wincing as she took in the injuries covering him, and a bout of shock rippled through her when her fingers picked up something else upon his skin: the blistering, unmistakeable insignia of a "P". They had branded him as a pirate. Fairly recently, seeing as the burn wasn't yet a scar, but it would mark his arm forever, showing the world what he had become.

She let her eyes rest upon this for a few moments before moving her hands gingerly and awkwardly to his face. Gently, she swept away the limp hair from his forehead, revealing the closed eyes and the expressionless eyebrows. He did not stir. A tear dripping on his skin, she leaned forward slightly and whispered, "Will."

Nothing. She tried again, and still there was no response. No, he couldn't be… there was a heartbeat still, a shallow breath from his lips, he was alive… let him awaken. Feeling apprehensive at how close she had to get to him, she whispered directly in his ear. This time, she thought she detected his eyes move from behind the shut lids, ever so slightly. Wetting her parched lips, she called his name once more, and this time she shook him. Now his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, all for a mere instant.

"_Please_," whispered Elizabeth urgently, gripping his shoulder. Forgetting all her former fears of rejection, she shifted her position and placed his head in her lap, her thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones, her voice urging him to return.

Finally, the eyes opened, and Elizabeth's breath stopped short. "It's me, Will." They were the same mahogany in the dreams, the ones that had stayed with her all this time.

But her joy was crushed as Will stared up at her with those clouded eyes, unseeing and confused. Infection from the wounds, dehydration, starvation, and all the other dire aspects of his situation had made him terribly ill, weak; anyone could see that. But the horrible truth of it was this: he did not recognize her.

"_No_, it's me, Elizabeth," she hissed through clenched teeth, fighting a new flow of tears as her hands cupped his face, trying to bring life back to him. Will gave her one last delirious stare before his eyes fluttered shut once more; a soft moan pulsed in his throat. Feebly he touched her arm, grabbing onto the last bit of hope, before letting his hand fall.

That small gesture hit Elizabeth harder than anything else, and that moment was when she realized the full extent of what she would have to do. She clasped his hand again and rubbed the coarse skin as her other arm cradled his head. "I promise you, Will," she murmured, "I will not let you go."

One final tear fell.

"_I will not let you die_."


	8. Path to Light

Okay, this chapter gets a bit… odd towards the end. I hope it's not confusing as to what happens, but if it is, I'll try to explain as best I can. Remember the dreams Will and Elizabeth were having?

* * *

It was a dark morning; but then again, it was always dark here. For that, though, Elizabeth was thankful. It was difficult enough to watch her step atop the rocks, the frothy ocean spray dappling her, without having to worry about someone seeing her. All the same, she kept her eyes open as she drew closer to the cart of coffins. 

A few years ago, the thought of being so close to lifeless bodies would have perturbed her, but now, after so many battles, after seeing so much death, she hardly batted an eyelash. Her hands fumbled around the roughly carved wood, searching for a smooth surface, the dim torchlight from the towers above being her only guide. From the folds of her uniform she drew a knife and made two perpendicular notches into the top corner of one of the boxes. This was the way she passed messages on to Bootstrap and Anamaria, and this particular mark- a cross- meant for them to continue to stay away. If she had engraved an arrow, they would begin the attack upon the prison.

Elizabeth moved her hand to the adjacent coffin, only to find it had already been imprinted with a sign identical to hers. A sense of relief washed through her; Jeremiah was also safe, then- for now. Her knife made one more "x" into another dead man's chest, and with that she was satisfied. If they made too many noticeable marks, they faced the possibility of discovery, but if they did not make enough, the _Firebrand_ crewmembers might not find them. Sadly smiling, Elizabeth gave a gentle pat to the edge of the cart, as if thanking the corpses for unknowingly serving as her couriers.

Not too far away, there was a crackle of boots on stone; someone was coming. Elizabeth quickly crept back to the rocks before the trespasser could notice her, beginning the cumbersome journey to the fortress doors. Now was time to try and smuggle pilfered bread to the prisoners that had a chance for survival… and also bring the light back in one that did not.

-------

It was so hard to stare through those bars, helpless and desperate as Will faded further away. The few moments they had alone were precious, and Elizabeth had to use them as best she could to clean his wounds with the sparse materials from her satchel, trickle some stolen water into his throat, force some morsels of bread down, and battle his delirium.

The first order was difficult to carry out, as the grime surrounding the scars had to be delicately scrubbed away with what little cloth and water she had. She hardly dared to wrap more than a small number of bandages around the worst gashes, applying a special salve of Jeremiah's to banish the infection. If there was enough water in her metal canteen, she would wet a rag to place on Will's burning forehead in an attempt to ease away the fever. The whole cleaning process was a tricky and lengthy business to carry out, working between the presences of other guards; twice she had escaped from the cell just in time, a soldier turning into her corridor at the same instant when she pulled her key out of the lock. Slowly but surely, though, Will's body, on the outside anyway, was becoming cleaner and healthier-looking.

With the dirt cleared away, it was glaringly apparent how thin he was. It seemed so unnatural compared to her memories of the tall, muscular blacksmith; this Will was too weak to even talk properly, let alone wield a sword. He needed nourishment badly, and the few victuals Elizabeth had to offer were hardly fit to bring back his strength. And what she was able to get down his throat rarely stayed in his deprived stomach. Water was a little easier, and for that she was thankful, but all the same, Will was painfully frail from lack of food.

But without a doubt, what took the hardest toll on Elizabeth was Will's delirious state. He had not spoken to her yet, and still gazed at her unseeing. There were a few times when a spark was there, but these instances were rare, and she could never tell what he was thinking. Sometimes she would just sit there with his head in her lap, urging him to show her a sign, and yet those eyes remained cloudy and confused. It became increasingly difficult for Elizabeth to have faith, as it diminished every time she was unable to bring him back.

Sometimes he spoke, but never to her. It was mostly traces of names that she caught, a cry to those he loved. Usually it was Bootstrap he called for, or his long-deceased mother; Anamaria's name was whispered frequently as well. Also oft mentioned, though, was Elizabeth herself; this event never failed to bring a tear to her eye, or a frantic prayer into her heart.

Every day, Elizabeth told herself she would be able to save him; this was one matter in which she would not fail, _could not fail_. She had come all this way and went through all this just to find him, and she would not just let him slip away. With each passing day, though, her confidence shattered just a tad more, and it was getting harder to mend the cracks. Every sunrise brought her closer to facing the imminent truth… that cold, dark door of failure… that death was creeping ever closer for Will Turner.

And no matter how much she wished, no matter how much water was in her canteen to heal him, there was nothing Elizabeth Swann could do stop it.

-------

She held him again that night, her rough fingers caressing the bruised skin and lifeless face. Tears fell as what seemed like years passed, and still she grasped onto him, as if he were her saviour instead, and if she let go, she would drown in a flood of her own despair and guilt. No longer did she care about the other guards or pirates in their cells. No longer did she care about the plan. No longer did she care about herself.

"Don't leave me," Elizabeth whispered, sobs cluttering the only words she had ever had for him. She curled upon the stone beside him, drawing his limp body to her own. Her tears dampened his cheeks, and still he did not move. Her hands stroked the scars, and still they ensnared his body. The tattoo of her heart beat against his chest, urging his to keep doing the same, and yet he slipped further away from her.

Will was in her arms, but it was if Elizabeth was in his, begging him to find her. An almost hysteric grief had tethered her to him, keeping her beside him on the floor. The lament inside her became a resigned weariness as the night wore on, and finally she closed her eyes, as if shutting off all hope that remained in front of her…

… And in her final sleep beside him, a dream arose…

-------

_An eternal darkness surrounds her, like shadows creeping up her skin and into her heart. At first she can see nothing; the impenetrable night is all that exists here. It is behind her, above her, beneath her, consuming her in its invisible maw. Whispered voices echo in her ears; she cannot understand them, but a chill reverberates through her all the same. Shutting her eyes makes no difference; the obscurity is all in the same, and the voices still persist._

_When she opens her eyes again, something flashes in the distance ahead. Not really a flash… more like a dim, white glow, like the light a weak candle flame makes on a wall. It comes again, hypnotically beckoning her vision. Her mysteriously bare feet make a step forward, feeling nothing but stone beneath… granite made of shadow. A shiver runs up through her spine._

_A silhouette has appeared in the soft illumination, hardly distinguishable from where she is standing. Her mind wonders about this, but it is the light that she drawn to deeper for the moment._

_Its source seems to be a fountain, comprised of black stone and silvery-dark water. The many tendrils of wintry liquid collide and connect with each other, pooling together in a seemingly bottomless bowl, forever falling until a shadow ends their journey. She cannot tell where the glow is coming from, but it dances on the surface all the same, teasing the viewer as it attempts to conceal the darkness beneath._

_At first enchanted, she is now overcome with a horror that she can't explain. She backs away- and the silhouette of the stranger once again catches her eye, and this time her full attention and wonder. She thinks she knows him, but she can't be sure._

_He doesn't look at her, yet seems to acknowledge her presence. After many long moments pass, he speaks. "Do you find it beautiful?"_

_She hesitates before answering him. "I cannot say. It seems to be, but… there is something about it that is not beautiful, something sinister, if you find my meaning. I wish I knew what it was."_

_"It is death," he murmurs, his voice a purr and a growl at the same time. "Here we are, ever closer to it. For many days I have stepped nearer, and now I am just about there, ready to taste it… I have been thirsty for so long…"_

_She reaches out to him. "Don't do it!"_

_"Why ever should I not?" he asks slowly, turning his head; but the last words die as he identifies her._

_Another tremble runs through her, for now she can see his face, and recognize him for who he is. They had met in many dreams before this one, and for so long they had not seen sight of one another. Her cold heart beats faster as the light reflects off his face; she remembers the soft sand of the beach, the ocean sighing in their ears, their eyes, arms, and lips finding each other… Everything is dimmer now, his eyes hardened to a glittery black._

_The marvelling, amorous expression on his face tells that he remembers her too, and for a moment, they are transfixed by each other in this land of night. Once again her heart quivers in her chest, before settling into a soothing, content beat that only that barely-existent smile of his could bring about. He can say nothing, but the edges of his eyes sparkle a bit more with a fusion of joy and forlornness. She raises her hand again tentatively, resting it upon his cheek. "Come with me," she presses. "I can take you to the sunshine."_

_"You came to me," was all he could manage to say._

_She steps closer to him. "Yes," she whispers. "Yes. Please, come with me."_

_He blinks slowly, and glances back at the fountain, its velvety streams and splashes still a siren song to him. Brows furrowing, he does not know what to do._

_Her hand slips into his, and he turns to her once more, their faces mere inches from each other. She brings her lips to his ear. "Let's go back there for a while."_

_A nod. He turns away from the fountain for good, with her still firmly beside him. The light still waltzes in the corner of their eyes and the surrounding voices persist, but they know it is not yet their time to answer. Together, they cross the darkness one footfall at a time; he walks at a more hesitant pace, but she is always able to keep him with her. The warmth of their hearts is the only torch in the long, dark path._

_… At least until they can see the sunlight, dotted with palm trees and ocean and hope. When their bare feet feel the sand, they know they are home._

_A bit of flaxen-gold sun is visible over the horizon; not a terminal sunset, but rather the rising of a new morning. They simply stand there, side by side, drinking in the beautiful sight and the emotions it ignites inside them. Finally, he speaks._

_"Thank you… for bringing me back."_

-------

In bewilderment, Elizabeth felt her mind come back to consciousness, and she kept her weary eyelids closed, afraid to see what had happened to Will. How dare she let herself sleep! Now he was probably dead, gone forever… she had not been strong enough to save him. But what had the dream meant? Even now, the details were crumbling away. A new wave of tears shimmered under her lashes.

Then a gentle puff of air tickled her wet cheeks- a breeze? No, any wind in this prison was a damp, cool draft, not with the heat this one had. At that moment it occurred to her; it was not a breeze, but the breathing of someone alive.

Her eyes gingerly fluttered open… to see two long-lashed mahogany orbs staring back into them, not confused or delirious, but knowing, solemn, and bright… eyes that she had last seen in the dream. He blinked them once, still watching her with a soulful wisdom, a sallow torchlight sending a bead of light amongst the brown irises.

Elizabeth could do nothing but return the gaze, allowing her vision to travel down his now meaningful face. His heart throbbed soundly against her own. She could feel the warmth in his skin, but it was a pleasant one, not the burning of fever. The realization of what had happened froze her. Somehow, she knew he had shared her dream too, that he had all this time, and that through some means of power that neither of them had before possessed, it had been enough- _she_ had been enough- to bring him back. Right then, through her awe and mystification, she could do or say nothing.

But he could. After their eyes let many words pass between them, Will spoke to her, a single word that she had heard many times before, in a voice that was still hoarse and feeble, but never with such relevance and meaning as this; the proof that she had not failed.

"_Elizabeth_."

He had returned.


	9. Closed Eyes of Fire

_Yes, I am alive! I can't apologize enough for the delays; some plotbunnies attacked me a while ago, and I didn't think it best to ignore them... I'm not sure how long this story will last; it may take a while for it to finish. Sadly, it won't end in time for its first publication anniversary, that's for sure. Boy, do I feel pathetic..._

* * *

The walls of the dark chamber were echoing with the ever-familiar cracks of a whip and the short cries of someone in pain. A small, crumpled form writhed on the floor, struggling to fight the agony, the coppery scent of his own blood clouding his senses. The black serpent of the whip attacked him again, its touch like venom upon his skin; then a bucket of saltwater was splashed upon him, igniting the marks with an even greater torture than before. He could barely suppress the yelp issuing out of his throat, pressing his face into the stone so that they could not see his anguish. 

A harsh hand snagged into his dust-coloured hair, yanking his head upwards; now the cold blade of a knife was pressed against his throat, slowly and gently brushing upwards to his jaw and lips. His breaths, coming in desperate pants, fogged the metal.

"_Speak_, vermin," fumed Mercer, pressing the flat surface of the knife firmly against his face. "Use your tongue, or I shall cut it out!"

The young man swallowed, the instinct for survival urging him to tell everything, but his loyalty was stronger. He drew his mouth into a tighter line and looked back at Mercer in both defiance and terror.

With a quick swipe, Mercer cut the spy's face from across his temple to the opposite end of his jaw. Blood trickled into the young man's mouth as he gasped in pain. A swift, hard kick was delivered into his ribs- followed by a snap of bone- and he buckled sideways onto the stone once more. The whip struck him yet again, and a foot was pressed firmly onto his torn face, holding him down.

Almost leisurely clicks of boots sounded from across the floor, and the spy glanced upwards to see the serenely calm face of Lord Spelford, who had witnessed the torture with quiet observance. He bent down to his level now, his eyes mocking.

"It greatly amuses me to think that the likes of you could hope to deceive a head of the East India Trading Company. I do not merely relax in my study all day, lad; my eyes miss very little on the happenings in this fortress. No matter if you tell me or not of your probable accomplice, I shall find him anyway, if he exists. But if you decide to inform me now, I can promise a far swifter death for him; perhaps almost as swift as yours.

"Now tell me; is there anyone with you, and if there is, what name does he go by?" Spelford had his hand under the spy's chin now, jerking it upwards, ignoring the blood that was running onto his glove. The young man said nothing, just gazed back with a mixture of fear, hesitance, and rage smouldering in his eyes; Spelford could decipher each one of those emotions, the knowledge of them alone telling him all he needed to know. This prisoner was needed no longer.

With that, Spelford rose up again, reaching for the scabbard at his side. In one fluid motion he drew his sword and brought it deep into the chest of the prisoner on the floor. The spy's eyes grew wide and blank; blood bubbled from his mouth. As Spelford yanked the rapier from his body, the young man's life went with it.

Spelford brought the blade erect, eyeing the now ruby-coloured sheen glimmering on it. With a grumbled sigh, Mercer stuck his knife back into its sheath, sidestepping away from the body. "I don't think you should have done that so soon, my lord," he said, a tad uncertainly.

"He wouldn't have told us anyway," replied Spelford, wiping the rapier with his soiled glove. "He would have been one of those annoyingly loyal types, despite his weakness. We might as well get the messy parts through before we begin the search for the other one. Besides, with one man gone, their strategy, whatever it might have been, is sure to have a considerable hole in it; killing him could have only added to our benefit. If there were others, how would they have known what happened to their dear partner? Let us confuse them for now. And keep an eye on the new recruits for any suspicious behaviour."

"I will inform Hobson," said Mercer. "And Mr. Fletcher might know something as well; he sometimes helps out with the new men."

"Be sure to inspect things yourself, Mercer. I very much doubt this little incident is of much importance to us, but if it ends up being so, we'd best put an end to it before it spreads any more than it has already." Spelford gave a short nod before striding away, letting his bloodied glove flutter to the floor beside the body.

-------

The night Will's fever broke, it was as if nothing else mattered for Elizabeth; how could anything be as important, as lovely as the sight of his face, filled with precious life? Her heart was leaping in a lively jig, her senses taking note of only him: she let her eyes roam over his face, hands, and bare chest; her ears picked up the slightest wavers of his breathing with joy; she drank in his musky, beautifully dirty scent; she trembled under the slightest feel of his skin; and with his face barely an inch from her own, her tongue could once again remember the sweet scent of his breath, a taste she had long since forgotten and unknowingly desired.

Will's soul was in a brilliant, achingly wonderful turmoil as well. Part of his mind was questioning why and how; how had he managed to wake with this miraculous angel, always flying on the edge of his dreams, with her arms around him? Why was she here? How was she here? Had those terrible years been no more than a nightmare? No practical, proper answers in words were to be found in her eyes, but he could not have summoned the thought to search for them otherwise. All he could hope to do was gaze at her for as long as he was able, irrevocably and silently loving her…

Eventually, though, words would have to come. But Will was unable to summon to his tongue anything that would describe the immense, agonized feeling he had harboured for so long, the guilt gnawing at him for everything he had done that hurt her. No words could truly illustrate what he felt for her, that deep, impenetrable, untameable sea of love, the thorn-sharp ocean he would have swum a thousand times over, if only to see her smile once more, if only to feel that gaze directed at him. Oh, the honour, to have her merely _looking_ at him! She probably had no idea of how she tormented him so, how the mere thought of her caused his heart, pierced with daggers, somehow to also find a way to soar; he both loved and hated being smitten with her still, the way she was able to turn him, a notable pirate captain, back into that stuttering blacksmith apprentice. His love for her was more weakening than the most crippling torture, yet it also strengthened him with a kind of golden immortality. What could he possibly say to describe all that and more?

How could Will Turner, a man who knew not the art of words, tell her anything at all?

That rational part of him was returning, driving away the present and beckoning the past. What could he say to erase the terrible wrong he had done when he left her in the rain? What would a few flimsy sentences do to make her love him again? How could whispers brush those years away like cobwebs, and relight the fire they had once attempted to kindle? They had failed; that was the awful truth that had been so hard to accept. Both had fallen, and had picked themselves up in a far different place. To start again, yet to drown once more… he had not the heart to try.

And Elizabeth knew it. Staring into his broken, hopeless expression, she knew he would not be able to hold her. Yet she also knew she would not be able to do the same for his soul, no matter how many bandages and healing salves she gave to him. Her heart had been broken, yes, but his far more so, because his love had been stronger, his unwavering devotion and protection far exceeding what she had felt. That fact pierced at her more severely than the point of a cutlass, shamed her more than anything, something she wanted desperately to prove wrong, but would never be able to. He was too pure for her filthy hands to touch, too noble for her to even think of caring for, too beautiful for her undeserving eyes to behold. He had braved the unthinkable for her, turned against his own morals to ensure the best for her, his endless courage displayed time and time again. Yet still she had not cared enough. He had offered her love, but she had chosen mere lust instead, like preferring the simple lump of coal to the transformed diamond.

But had she made that choice? Often she told herself that, just so she could be more confident in her new life, feeling as though she had chosen her own destiny. The truth of it, though, was that _he_ been the one to push her away, turn his back to her. He had become the betrayer in the end, and so therefore it had been him that broke their bond. Despite his visible love, Will had left her. It was_ him_, not her! Pride told her this, but her heart whispered what she knew to be true: though he may have taken the final step, she had made the first. And that, she knew deep down, was far worse. If she hadn't succumbed to her feelings for Jack, none of this would have ever happened. They wouldn't be here, trapped in a prison, weary and frail upon a dank stone floor, unable to speak to each other- unable to tie together the fragments of their lost love.

Somehow, Will and Elizabeth both understood this. Dreams in a land of sunshine weren't enough to bring them together. They had to do it themselves, but at that moment, neither of them was strong enough. Though Will may have been found, they were still lost.

Swallowing, Elizabeth brushed her cold fingers away from his hand, and saw him close his eyes in return, as if agreeing with her. "I'm sorry," Will murmured, so silently he could scarcely be heard. She didn't have to ask what he meant. Holding back tears, she nodded feebly before clambering to her feet with agonized slowness. He remained on the floor, still a beaten prisoner, weak from fighting sickness. Without a word she picked up her satchel and exited the cell, now putting physical bars between them. Before heading back into the darkness of the corridor, she cast one last glance at him, unwilling to let him go again.

But his eyes were still closed. And so she left.

-------

With her mind in such turmoil and tears threatening to blur her vision, Elizabeth could scarcely see where her feet were taking her. Faintly she noted the distant screams, the grey dawn beginning to seep in through the few tiny windows, the utter stillness about the corridors. Nothing meant anything to her right now; confused and despairing, she was unable to think of anything but Will, and the way he had shut his eyes to her.

That stupid bastard, far too selfless… he never took anything he wanted, never did anything for his own benefit. Why couldn't he at least try to fight for her? But perhaps he didn't even want to have her back… maybe it would have been better if she had never come at all. What bewilderment she felt! Suddenly she seemed very much alone.

Elizabeth was struck by a sudden, strange longing for Jack, odd at a time where everything in her mind was Will. Jack would know what to do, he always had a plan, usually for his own advantage, true, but it was something at times where there was nothing. Oh yes, he'd be able to use his silver tongue, quick wits, and catlike agility to dance around the guards and free the prisoners, through some way or another. If he were here, he wouldn't have been afraid to talk to Will. He'd… _no, stop thinking about him! How can you still trust him, after being hurt so many times? No, if the bloody bastard was here, I'd send him right back out to his beloved ship, rum, and salty wenches! That's all he needs to be happy._

She would have started crying again at that moment… but she was sick of tears, hated succumbing to such a display of weakness. Elizabeth paused for a moment to regain control of herself; after all, she was still trapped in this place, and had to keep up her disguise. She pressed her palms into her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to stop shivering so much. When she allowed herself to see again, a trembling light flickered on the corridor walls ahead… candlelight from an open door. With a waver of curiosity, Elizabeth crept closer to it; the door was made of sturdy reddish wood, held in place with almost intricate filigree. There was a knocker made of same type of metal as well; it was made to model a lion's head, a dragon-like cat fiercely gripping a ring of brass in its teeth. The whole thing seemed entirely unbefitting in such a dismal place; it was easily apparent that it was the entrance to the chambers of someone important.

Elizabeth's mind snapped back at the realization. Ever so slowly, she peered around the edge of the open door; to her utter amazement, a warm, beautiful room was before her, firelight wavering over the many shades of red, brown, and gold. Soft velvet covered the chairs, trimmed with delicately woven tassels; a silver tray, holding the remnants of a meal, was close by the door, ready for someone to whisk it away (admittedly, Elizabeth felt her stomach growl at this); the rug before the fire was like thick moss, the kind of stuff to bury your toes in on a cold night; amongst all the furniture, though, what caught Elizabeth's eye most of all was the desk in the centre of the room, ornately carved from a kind of dark wood; clutches of papers, a small box, a stick of wax for marking seals on letters, among other odds and ends, littered the smooth surface. What information was hidden in that parchment?

Scarcely able to believe the sheer coincidence of her situation, Elizabeth glanced down the corridor on both sides, then back into the chamber once more, just to make sure she was alone in these parts. Swallowing, she then stepped forward, taking the greatest care not to brush the edge of the open door. With the most careful steps, as if she were afraid to leave footprints on the stone, she came to the imposing desk, glancing over its contents.

Most of the letters were concerning the business of trading, and at first Elizabeth paid no attention to those; being so weary, it was still hard to focus, especially on written words. But when the most recent date crossed her eyes, she finally started to concentrate on what the passage beneath it read. The script was like dark feathers, elegantly fluttering across the page in loops and flourishes, almost beautiful to read, but what it contained was far more important to Elizabeth:

_September the Second, in the year of our Lord Seventeen-Eighteen_

_Dear good Sirs of the East India Trading Company,_

_It is with regret I write that the tempestuous season has fallen upon us now in the Caribbean Sea. As such, I feel it would be an ill choice to send the Promise and the Mary Belle back to Europe at this time, seeing as the goods they carry are of immense value to the Company; a dreadful shame it would be to lose them. Those Company members here were all in agreement to have the two ships and their cargoes wait in Kingston, where they shall be sufficiently safe and well cared for, and then sail in November, when it is presumed the hurricanes shall fade. Coincidentally, November the Fifteenth is the date scheduled for Lord George Dillingham, Lord Thomas Roderick, and myself, Lord Reginald Spelford, to return to England aboard the Endeavour, along with the fine trading vessels the Sea Holly and the Adelaide. It would appear reasonable enough to have the delayed ships travel with this fleet for their passage across the Atlantic._

_Do not worry about us being attacked; I no longer see the pyrates as a threat to us. The late Lord Cutler Beckett did a fine job of destroying much of their ranks a few years ago, and I rather pride myself on ridding the Caribbean of the rest since then. None of our vessels have been attacked for some months, save for the one particular incident in the American colonies, which, of course, was swiftly taken care of. Yes, now I truly feel the oceans are open for our taking; now is the time for the East India Trading Company to cross the globe._

_We shall see you when we arrive in England._

_Lord Reginald Spelford_

The_ Promise_, the _Mary Belle_, the _Sea Holly_, the_ Adelaide_, and the _Endeavour_- only the last of these names was familiar to Elizabeth, terribly familiar… but all the same, she stored the rest promptly into her memory, along with the date: November the Fifteenth, November the Fifteenth… Elizabeth's heart gave a few jumps in her chest; this bit of intelligence might prove to be valuable in the future, she could see that easily enough. So many "fine trading vessels" out in the open, carrying cargoes of equally "immense value", not to mention those three Lords, leaders of the East India Trading Company. It was enough to make the pirate in her giddy with excitement, and the warrior side eager to finally strike a blow back at the people who had torn so much away from her. This time, their arrogance wouldn't let them get away so easily; the pirates were not totally expelled in these waters, as they so mistakenly imagined. Come November, they could be proven wrong.

Even if it wasn't clear exactly what to fight for or under what plan it was going to be, it was something. For once, she knew what side she was on. If only everything else was so simply divided; if only the easy path held what she desired most… Will's closed eyes came back to her once more in a stab of pain. Elizabeth shook her head back and forth, as if to brush off the image. A wave of utter exhaustion overcame her; it was high time she fell asleep on something other than stone, cold with dampness and shattered hopes.

As quietly as she came, Elizabeth slipped through the door again and headed in the direction where she thought her bed was; before she went, she glanced back at the lion-head knocker, the glint of light making it look as though it had eyes of fire, burning into her and reading what was inside. An involuntary shiver went through Elizabeth, and she crossly rubbed her arms as if to stifle it. Really, what was there to fear from a lump of metal stuck into a door? _You're going daft, lass_, she thought to herself.

All the same, for some reason or other, she quickened her steps as she continued down the halls. By the time she came across another person, she was nearly running, and it was all she could to not to collide into the man coming from the opposite direction. Skidding to a halt, she nervously glanced into the stranger's face.

"E-excuse me, sir," she murmured, nervously aware that her voice was raspy and weak, her appearance worn down and dirty, but also grateful that it would help to disguise her; if she didn't meet the stranger's eyes too often, he should be tricked well enough.

The man said nothing in reply at first, his thin eyebrows rising in slight surprise upon noticing the young guard wandering alone so early in the morning. He gazed at her from head to toe, as if sizing her up, before he let his countenance relax into an expression of calm poise. Elizabeth tried to do the same with her own face, not wanting to appear suspicious. Finally the man raised a hand, as if to wave her off; a hand, unlike the other behind the man's back, that wore no glove.

Tired as she was, Elizabeth didn't notice this little fact as she darted past him, casually continuing to her quarters. Neither was she able to observe that he watched her go with such curiosity, the kind that Elizabeth wouldn't have liked at all if she had perceived it.

What was worst, though, was the subtle smirk that crossed the man's hawkish features upon her departure, like a lion taking the first motions of hunting its prey, studying the way the creature moves and best determining the way to catch it. Eyes of fire watched her retreat to the blackness, searching and waiting…

* * *

_I give **tremendous**__ thanks to every single reader and reviewer, those both named and anonymous, for sticking with me all this time! My dear Wills-Elizabeth23, I feel very touched that my story was the first one for you to review, and thank ye kindly for persisting that I continue! And once again, another bow towards the lovely StephCalvino!_

_Until next time, then. ;)  
_


	10. Hearts of the Past

I'm not dead yet!! And neither is this story!! What is it with me and updating? I apologize over and over to anyone who has been faithful enough to keep up with this ambling fanfic; I've always been a slow thinker, both a perfectionist and a procrastinator (bad combination), so that always affects me, even in fan matters. The sad thing is, I was fourteen when I started this; now I'm almost sixteen, and I'm only on Chapter Ten...

There is a character in this chapter that has been mentioned before, but hasn't made an appearance 'til now. He is not, in fact, an OC of mine; he is borrowed (without permission) from another fandom that I love; if you know where he's from, you get a virtual hug from me!

This chapter is hopefully a tad longer than the others, but be warned; there is a lot of reminiscing going on, and very little dialogue (though I did stick in a conversation somewhere). But, to me, the relationship between Will and Elizabeth was never really about the dialogue, anyway.

Once again, I am most deeply sorry for taking forever to update.

Disclaimer that I should have had long ago: I own nothing except the plot, the Firebrand, Silas, Jeremiah Trilby, and Lord Reginald Spelford. Pretty much everything else is PotC or borrowed tidbits from other fandoms.

* * *

Jack couldn't remember the last time his bloody compass had worked properly. For the past- what was it?- three years, at least, the needle had wavered in several different directions when he flipped it open, rarely settling in one place for more than a few seconds. Even by concentrating, nothing seemed clear.

_Elizabeth, Elizabeth_... The word pounded furiously in Jack's brain. _I need to find Lizzie. _He fluttered his fingers over the compass, like he was trying to enchant it to point the way he needed it to go. Northwest-by-west. Southeast. East-northeast. It was like an overexcited child when confronted with an array of sweets; it wanted to try everything. Or perhaps, it was him that wanted everything, as Tia Dalma had teasingly implied so long ago. Jack had always craved freedom- the compass would point to whatever could give him that. But what, exactly, could offer him true freedom?

Even when he was a lad, Jack Sparrow had always wanted to have a bit of everything. His nimble fingers would find their way into trash heaps and barrels and fine silk purses, testing and feeling. Sometimes he would manage to get away with his frayed pockets a tad heavier than they had been moments before; other times, all he received was a swift boxing to his ears. His thieving skills improved as he grew older- but then, his desire to steal, to _have_, grew steadily stronger as well. As he became more aware that his life would never reap riches and nobility, he sought to win prizes instead. It didn't matter what it was; fights, games, gambles, women, gold... the possession of anything was satisfying, and if he lost it, the greed to gain it back was even pleasurable still.

Perhaps Jack's thirst to gain came from the meager benefits of his childhood, the way he was constantly pushed down and discouraged from taking. His youth was a collage of desperation and bitterness, glaring stains upon a paper that should have been clean. A father that preferred the embrace of the sea to the pleading grasp of his son; a mother that withered away from him like seaweed discarded upon the shore; the feeling of lying crumpled and small on the ground as a stronger boy jeered and kicked at him, always the scapegoat of the gangs he sometimes tried to join; the constant pinch of hunger and loneliness in his belly; the indignity of crouching in the shadows of filth aboard ships as they unknowingly carried him to what he thought were new worlds; the raw feeling of determination after being struck down by his masters- the cartographer, the Italian swordsman, the leaders of the EITC- simply because he had to learn what they offered, no matter what the cost. He refused to be a mere ragamuffin on the streets, only destined to become no more than a common seadog as he aged. No; Jack vowed to become a captain; wait, more than that. He would be a legend. Never again would he be kicked down and shoved into the ordinary life poor men were expected to lead. Whatever it took, he would be immortal in the memory of time, his freedom enduring always, and if he came to it, he would push aside anyone who got in the way. Or, at least nudge them off to the side for a bit, until he figured out what to do with them and how they could be of use.

And if he lost a few things along the way, well, there was always another sure to come along- or so he told himself. There were some things Jack could never give up- the _Black Pearl_ was one of them. As a young ex-trader out of the East India Trading Company, he had refused to leave her behind, broken beneath the ocean after Beckett, angered by her captain's soft heart, had destroyed her; with the pirate brand still fresh on his skin, Jack had struck up a bargain with Davy Jones, trading his precious freedom for the ship he loved. When Barbossa had led the mutiny against him, Jack had not permitted himself to rest until he had regained his dark lady back for himself, and lodged his single bullet in her deceitful lover's heart. Yet again, many months later, when his old enemy committed the same crime, Jack had still managed to win the _Pearl_ back, and was finally able to experience the pleasure of dropping dear Hector off on Rumrunner's Island as he had wanted to for so long (though lately he had heard rumours that Barbossa had found a way off and had managed to secure a new ship, but Jack tried not to let that little fact bother him too much). Through his relentless pursuit of her, the _Black Pearl_ had become the physical embodiment of his lust for immortality- to hold on, to never fade away. With her, his freedom was pure and intact; she was one thing he would never let go.

And Elizabeth Swann, Jack was certain, was another.

At least, he thought he was certain. She was his lass, wasn't she? No other woman could ignite the same fire in him as she could, or toy with his affections and twist his silver tongue in such a way. Jack saw so much of himself in Elizabeth, in her manipulating ways and passion and hunger for freedom; yet she also was the challenging spitfire that he as a womanizer delighted in figuring out, someone he could belittle just as she tormented him in turn. They clashed often and connected occasionally, a tumbling relationship that worked just fine for him. And, up until she had quite unexpectedly run away, an arrangement he thought she enjoyed as well.

But she had chosen him, hadn't she?. For reasons that she never chose to explain (and reasons he was not altogether eager to sort out), Elizabeth Swann had chosen _him_, Jack Sparrow, over Will Turner.

Will Turner... Jack's spine prickled uncomfortably, an odd emotion gnawing at him. Satisfaction, perhaps? Fear? Guilt? Affection? But it didn't matter; the lad whom he would have once considered to be his best mate was long gone, just as his father before him, and so many others who had left Jack's side. An array of faces came back to him in a rush, small shards of his heart that he had worked hard to bury away; his lip twitched slightly as he remembered them: his mother, his father, his fellow childhood urchins... old shipmates... lovers...

The needle on the compass trembled, feebly settling in one direction. Jack knew where it was pointing- and why. Judging from what he knew of Elizabeth's abandonment of him- gathered from a somewhat questionable witness- and instinct deep inside him, he knew it was the way he needed to go, to find Elizabeth- but it was not pointing for her. There was another, it seemed, still firmly latching onto his soul...

"Sail due east, men!" he barked over his shoulder, the individual orders immediately bleated to the men by Gibbs, who saw the tangle of emotions in his captain's face and thought it best to leave him be. Jack's eyes flicked towards the compass again, almost embarrassed by its heading. Once more, irritably, he shook it, as if he were trying to erase the arrow from its weathered face- and from his own mind as well.

Jack didn't try to pry into his heart that often.

Mostly because he was afraid of what he would find.

--

Will may have closed his eyes after Elizabeth left, but he had been far from falling into sleep. His body was worn after facing yet another trial against death, but his mind and heart refused to give him rest. A constant echo pounded through him, bringing up thoughts of remorse, unworthiness, confusion, and Elizabeth. One thought stalked another, circling him in a single restless grip.

What, exactly, had brought her here? How had she known? Had she somehow come across a pirate that had been in the battle- his father, perhaps? Will sighed with a short waver of relief; if so, it meant his father, and Anamaria and the crew as well, were safe. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if they had been hurt on his account.

Will had always loved his father, despite the patchy influence he had had in his son's life. Perhaps that was why his abandonment had been so painful... because every time the father turned back to the sea, the little son had clung all the harder to his leg, begging him to stay just a little longer. Will had loved him too much; loved his silence, his gruffness, his sad blue eyes. Bill's absences had hurt Will because he felt his father had not loved him back. But all that had changed, now that they were reunited; because Will had chosen the father who had never been there over the love of his life, and it had healed the mangled link between them, fused into something stronger. Bill Turner was the thing that had kept Will going each day, picked him up when his heart had felt too heavy to carry. If Bill was gone, Will had felt he would wither away too.

Though there had been someone that might have had the chance of claiming a piece of his heart... Anamaria, the feisty female pirate whom he had barely known before joining her crew had somehow also become part of his world. Their relationship was an odd one; where he was steadfast and quiet in his dealings, she chose fire and intimidating persistence, and naturally they had reached strife on many an occasion. Perhaps her spirit had reminded him of Elizabeth, or her personality was the kind he wished he sometimes had, but in any case, something had sparked between them; Ana was almost like his sister now. They made little attempt to try for something more. Something was holding them back; for their own reasons, ones they rarely discussed, but both knew of, they had refused to dwell into the realms of anything resembling a courtship. Certainly they had come close... but they valued each other too much to put their faith into something as dangerous as their own hearts.

Two years ago, in the last conversation they had ever had, Jack had told Will if he chose to lock his heart away, he would lose it for certain. That was Will had attempted to do after he and Elizabeth had parted. He had not dared to mention or even think of her. At first he even tried to hate her, because she had said she hated him; but that was even more agonizing than trying to remember their love. It had made him angry, how she could so freely be rid of him, but he could never brush her from his heart, no matter how hard he tried. Oh, to be like Davy Jones, and with a mere knife free the burden from his chest forever!

The dreams, it seemed had always been there; in those despairing first nights, Will had floated through fragments of images that no longer belonged to him... her tangled golden hair, her pouted lips, her intelligent voice, her warm brown eyes... then he would wake, writhing and twisting, his father's arms the only haven from the wonderful, heartwrenching nightmares. As the months wore on, the dreams became longer and more detailed; he was able to move freely throughout them... he was able to pull her into his arms, hold her as he would never be able to do in the waking world, and she would love him as fiercely as she once did... Waking up in the mornings, quite alone, was a tormenting process, but he was willing to brave it, just to keep living for the beautiful world of the night. It was only there that the thoughts of Elizabeth were not ones of pain. There she was a ghost, nothing more.

But now Elizabeth was here, deep within this fortress, and she was not a ghost. She had guided him back from certain death, though she had no reason for coming to him in the first place. A part of Will was giddy with excitement; the other felt only despair. He knew he could never take her back, not after what he had done to her; they had their own lives now, as torturous as it was to live them. But oh, how he wanted to embrace her... press her close to him... kiss her...

Overcome by a mind that until recently had not been his own, Will sighed and rubbed a hand over his furrowed brow; he was so deep in his thoughts that at first he was surprised when someone spoke.

"Ah, good; you're awake," said a nearby voice, casual and friendly, a tone odd to hear in a place such as this. Will turned his head stiffly to the cell closest to his, looking straight into the blue-grey eyes of the Dread Pirate Roberts, an ally and fellow leader of his rebellion against the EITC. Roberts' back was against the wall, his boots crossed atop each other, his hands clasped upon his chest; one would have gotten the illusion he was merely lounging at the base of a tree, lazily observing a golden summer day instead of staring at bleak stone and iron bars. Even now, it was as if Will had simply woken from a nap, and Roberts was striking a chat amongst grass and gentle breeze.

"I have to admit; you were starting to worry me there for a bit," continued Roberts. "I figured you were either suffering madly from some illness brought upon by this place, or that my attempts to talk to you proved unworthy of response."

The corner of Will's mouth twitched; a rather odd movement for him. "How long have I been out?" he murmured, the words scratching his raw throat.

"I'd say about a week before your valiant lady arrived on the scene."

A wave of guilt and emotional pain burned Will's eyes, and he turned his gaze to the stone floor on which his cheek rested; an attempt to look at anything other than Roberts' unblinking, searching stare.

But Roberts looked at him anyway, observing his reaction, taking in the slumped shoulders, the crumpled brow, the worn edges of his mouth... but most of all the eyes, deep with a torrent of grief, resignation, and longing. And something else. Something else that Roberts knew very well indeed.

"You know..." said Roberts softly, keeping his eyes locked on Will, knowing the young captain was listening, even if he did not return the look. "I consider myself to be in love. With quite a beautiful creature, if I do say so myself. Hair the colour of autumn, see, and skin like wintry cream- a rather winning combination. She was proud and strong, as I remember her, and it took much time until she found it in her heart she loved me as I did her. Our courtship was a happy one, but cut short through a matter of circumstances, resulting as who I am now: The Dread Pirate Roberts, captain of the ship _Revenge_. An occupation, I'm sure, she knows nothing about."

Will said nothing; he was unaware that Roberts had had a girl somewhere, a girl he would probably never be able to return to. Tales of broken love were ever common now these days, it seemed.

"It's been about four years now since I last saw her," continued Roberts softly, "and I have been unable to send word to her for all that time. It's quite likely she thinks me dead, though a part of me wishes for her to be irrational in that matter.

"...But I do know," Roberts added after a moment, "that if I had the chance to hold her again, to begin once more what is now lost to us... I would take it. No matter what the cost. Even if I end up losing her in spite of our reunion, at least I will have known then we weren't meant to be. Still, whether she accepts me or not, I would be certain where her heart lies. And mine as well."

Finally, Will looked up into his eyes, his expression lost and curious.

Roberts shifted onto his arm, turning away from Will. "Not that it would be of any interest to you or anything. Just a tale that happened to come into my mind." And with that he fell silent.

Will continued to stare at Roberts, pondering all he had said. For the rest of that day, he did no more than sit in his cell with utter stillness, thinking and praying and deciding...

--

There were no other notches in the coffins; there hadn't been for days. Elizabeth tried to tell herself that it wasn't anything to worry about, that Jeremiah was probably coming after her to make his marks- but the more pessimistic side of of her quailed whenever she saw the unblemished wooden of the coffins, knowing that he almost always came before her, and the fact that he had not been first for many days bothered her. What if...?

Elizabeth shook her head to clear away these dark thoughts; she had to stay strong, and keep up her act. If she let her guard down now, all could be for naught; there were prisoners who needed her, and a prisoner, perhaps, that she needed just as much.

That whole day she tried not to think of Will; even the whisper of his name in her mind was a deafening pain too much for her to endure. He seemed to be everywhere she went; the ragged prisoner who she handed her canteen of water that morning was Will; in the glittering eyes of Fletcher, the guard who had helped her on her first day, was Will also; even her own reflection in the single dirty mirror of the quarters she could see Will staring at her forlornly. The man who she had tried so long to forget was now haunting her in every waking step.

But as the shadows along the stone walls stretched longer and darker, Elizabeth knew she couldn't hold off seeing him any longer. Even if he would not take her, she had to save him; that was the pact her heart had made, and though she wanted to run, it would not release its hold on her.

With a brave attempt at casualness she headed toward his cell, head erect and heart pounding. As the familiar wrought-iron bars came into view, her hand automatically groped for the ring of keys on her belt; despite how much she was shaking, despite how her tongue seemed to swell with all the words she wanted to say, she would get this over with quickly. Their bond had been cut; she would respect that. If she strayed too long, she was afraid what she might do.

The violent tattoo in her chest shuddered to an overwhelming halt as she saw him, sitting upright against the wall of his cell, staring directly at her. The sharp angles of his face seemed more defined, a look of intensity sharpening his eyebrows and setting his jaw; an expression that tore at the heartfelt memories that had until recently been locked away. His gaze startled her; it was not the broken, helpless features she had become used to, and the hardness of it scared her, and for a moment, she wanted to turn back. But then she saw his eyes, and the softness in them, contrasting greatly with the rest of his countenance, was directed gently at her; a strange sensation swept over her entire being, and suddenly she felt she could stay there forever.

Even when they were children, Elizabeth and Will had always had a connection with their eyes. A simple look could say a thousand words, and her father had often been bewildered by the understanding they had with hardly saying more than a few sentences. His eyes would twinkle at her, and hers would laugh back; when tears clouded his, hers would become searching and compassionate; if hers were wide with fright, his would narrow in anger for whatever had hurt her. Then came the awkward years of their adolescence, when society had started to yank them apart, but their eyes would still find each other, even when others had tried to turn them away. Whatever their connection was- mind-reading, some called it, or hypnosis- it had been real, and it had kept their bond of friendship and love as the years had changed them.

That was why Elizabeth had been so upset when Will turned away from her in the maelstrom, and also why his closed eyes had destroyed her so. But now, after so much had happened, after how much they had broken each other, he was looking at her. And all she could do was gaze back- for a moment, for a day, for a century.

Her throat seemed to constrict, stifling her voice, and the simple act of breathing quickly became difficult. Even more so did her chest tighten when he spoke. "Elizabeth," he whispered, so quietly she could hardly hear it. His eyes became pleading, and his hand raised toward her wearily. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

The same words as last night- but his eyes conveyed a different meaning entirely.

Ever so slightly, her hand reached for his. She had always been rebellious- even to her own misgivings. Any thought of keeping her distance from him vanished as she suddenly flew towards him, collapsing beside him and pressing his hands to her face, letting them catch the tears that suddenly flowed down her cheeks. At first tentative, he now held her to his chest, eyes squeezing tight as he rested his lips atop her head, clutching her near to him for as long as he dared. Her fingers groped for his bony shoulders, dancing up his neck and tangling into his mane of hair. No words had to be spoken, their bodies entwining thirstily and without comprehensive thought.

"Will..." she breathed, trembling in his arms. The name scorched her tongue, like coals not yet extinguished from a fire, painful and beautiful at the same time. She had forgotten how much she loved the taste of the word.

They inclined their heads toward each other, misty eyes glimmering with passion, fear, hope, and wonder. Ever so slightly, her lips parted, and he tilted his head to meet her...

_Click. Click. Click._

The sound of calm, even footsteps broke the promise of a kiss, and Will and Elizabeth felt their hearts shatter. Their eyes flickered wildly towards each other, briefly finding the same horror and shock, and for a short heartbeat they were able to draw a slight feeling of courage for the love within each other's gaze as the footsteps grew louder and stopped in front of their cell door. With terror, they turned away from their connection to face who had come.

Standing there, smirking hungrily, much like a lion satisfied with the capture of its prey, was Lord Reginald Spelford.

* * *

Well... my first cliffhanger. Yay.


	11. Torture

_An update! Which you know is something rare from me if you've stuck with me this far. And just in time for the holidays... though I'm afraid this won't make much of a cheerful present. Angst angst angst. I'm not particularly fond of this chapter; it was very hard to write. But I hope you enjoy... if you can enjoy the depressing, horrific events in this chapter. Be sure to check out my poll; I have a few endings in mind for this story, and I need opinions. I have a soft spot for sad endings- but not everyone does. I think I could do a happy ending; definitely a bittersweet one. Tell me what you think. If my fic hasn't scared you away after this chapter._

* * *

At first Will was dazed, stunned by what had just happened. A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a thing; how could fate be so cruel as to bring these men down upon him and Elizabeth, just when they had found each other again? It seemed too nightmarish to be real, so at first he could do nothing but stare as if in a dream, arms still held limply around the woman he thought he had lost forever.

But when the soldiers surrounded the cell, and when they reached in to yank Elizabeth from his grasp, something clicked in Will's head. Suddenly all he could see was fire, and their talon-like fingers digging into his bony arms were like tongues of flame. He drove his elbow back into the one behind him, tried to twist out of their grip with a sudden ferocity that quickly reminded the soldiers of exactly who they were dealing with. Weak and starving as he was, Will still had the muscles and skill to fight, gained from all his years of hard labour and battle, and even without a sword and against such a hopeless cause, the glint in his eyes was still terrifying.

A crack of a whip, blood on his face, a fist in his belly- these merely slowed him down. But when Elizabeth cried out his name, her eyes panic-stricken and pleading- only then did Will stop struggling. He would fight against these men, he would let them hurt him- but he couldn't bear to see her in pain out of his doing. And standing still, thinking for a moment, he realized that it would be foolish to struggle, no matter how much he wanted to strike back; he didn't know how much strength he would need later. He silently thanked Elizabeth in his mind for putting an end to his rash actions.

They were roughly marched off down the corridors, shouts and jeers echoing all around them; Spelford led the procession, talking calmly to the lieutenant next to him, hands folded and eyebrows raised, as if he were enjoying the events. Will hardly noticed him; all he could see was Elizabeth. _It'll be okay, I won't let them hurt you_, he said over and over to her with his eyes- but he didn't believe it.

Elizabeth gazed back at him; behind her fear, she seemed almost apologetic, as if this was all her fault.

Will tried to smile at her, shaking his head back and forth. Her fault? She shouldn't even be here in this place; she deserved the sea and the sun, what Jack could give her. She shouldn't be here being dragged alongside him, deeper into the heart of this loathsome fortress, heading closer and closer to her demise. If only she were like the bird of her name, taking flight whenever she pleased... she shouldn't have to face this. It was because of him. Whatever they had in store for them, Will would be prepared to take it for her.

There wasn't much time left; there had never been enough time. Everything Will wished he could say to her, he tried to show in his face, in his eyes. _I'm sorry_, he thought, willing his mind to connect to hers. _I'm so sorry, Elizabeth. I was a fool to leave you; I was a fool to abandon our love. It was my fault, Elizabeth. I'm sorry,_

_I love you. _

She continued to stare back at him, a sad smile upon her lips- as if she had heard every word.

They were now in a courtyard- a place Will knew all too well. He had bled here, crumbled here, fallen upon the cold grey stones. Tall, clumsy arches opened the corridors out to the expanse of space, and despite how open the courtyard was in comparison to the rest of the cramped prison, it still seemed dark and suffocating, the few sallow torches only enhancing the feeling of foreboding.

Elizabeth and Will were marched side by side to the centre of the place, soldiers locking them in on all sides. Will could feel his body protesting at the awkward angle his arms were at behind his back, but he barely noticed; all he was conscious of was Elizabeth's quick, shaky breathing beside him, and Lord Spelford striding up to meet them.

"Good evening, Captain Turner," said Spelford in his cool voice, bowing his head, as if to mock Will and his title. "Such a delight to have you visit us here again; we can't seem to keep you away, can we? To be honest, I didn't expect to see you alive again; I fully expecting your last flogging to be enough to subdue you permanently. But alas, I have underestimated you... or perhaps I have underestimated the fervor of your loved ones." He stepped towards Elizabeth now.

"Ah, our little Elias Barlow..." Spelford said softly. "Perhaps you're wondering why all this is happening, poor child. Why you and dear Captain Turner are standing here before us. Why your sneaking accomplice is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you had hoped that he escaped? Ah, no, my dear, you would be mistaken there... for we caught the lad days ago. It took a little coaxing, but soon he was able to tell us that there was another in my fortress, hiding among my very men, helping the miserable thieves imprisoned here. I'm afraid that you made poor judgement, my dear, when you chose that man as your partner... he seemed quite eager to sell you and your cause out, screaming and pleading for his life in a most distasteful manner; his own worthless skin meant more to him than the lives of his friends, it seemed..."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed with anger, but Will could also detect the bewilderment and hurt in her expression, as if this information had caught her terribly off-guard. Will knew quite well the feeling of having someone you trusted turning on you...

"He's dead now," Spelford continued. "I killed him after he gave us information about his accomplice, which, of course, is young Master Barlow here... oh, forgive me, _Miss_ Barlow." In one swift motion he swept the tricorne hat off Elizabeth's head, revealing to everyone the feminine face under its shadow. His long fingers then came up to rest softly upon her cheek; Will could see Elizabeth shudder, revolted. "One does not meet many women the likes of you, my dear. And such a pretty face... so full of fire... Captain Turner is a lucky man indeed."

Some of the soldiers chortled, and Will felt a swoop of fury in his stomach. He could lie and say that he didn't know Elizabeth at all, that she had no connection to him, to let her go... but it would be pointless. Spelford had seen them together in his cell... he had seen the way they looked at each other. He could torment them as much as he pleased. Here was a man who knew how to cut- and cut deep.

"Mercer, do you happen to know the true name of this fine young lady?" asked Spelford, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth.

The man standing off to one side stepped forward, his grizzled face arrogant- Mercer, Beckett's most trusted accomplice, now working for a new master. His beady-eyed squint was directed at Elizabeth now, and he seemed delighted to be facing her again after all this time, especially with the odds balanced so highly in his favour.

"I certainly do know her, my lord," drawled Mercer. "This is Elizabeth Swann."

Awed mumbles suddenly rippled down the queue of soldiers. Elizabeth Swann- daughter of the late governor of Jamaica, formerly a lady of high class- now a renowned pirate and killer, rumoured by some to be the fabled Pirate King of the Brethren Court, Lord of the South China Sea, and a partner to Jack Sparrow. Will couldn't help but smile at their surprise, that a woman could be capable of so much. He'd always known about the fire that burned within Elizabeth; the thought of her escapades sometimes amazed him, but never shocked him as it had others.

"Elizabeth Swann..." murmured Spelford. "What an honour it is to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you, my dear- a lot of stories which, I daresay, leave me perplexed. I've also heard that you and Captain Turner were acquainted with each other at some point in the past... rather well acquainted, so it is said..."

Mercer smirked. "They were at one time due to be married, my lord, but the blessed event never occured... an act of my former master's doing, I might add."

Elizabeth glared at him in hatred; Spelford noticed.

"Ah, my boys, I feel we have a love story here... unfortunately, I never had much time for love stories. And it's odd; here we have Turner and Swann, when all the tales I've heard always tell of the names Sparrow and Swann..."

Will couldn't help it; his heart had still not healed regarding this matter. It was one mystery, one horrible, aching truth that he could never come to terms with, no matter how many times he told himself as such. He bowed his head, a painful twisting in his chest as more loud guffaws from the soldiers echoed around the courtyard. Elizabeth stood rigid next to him, an indescribable emotion burning in her face.

"And yet she still means something to you." Will raised his head as he realized that Spelford's soft voice was now directed at him. "That much I can see."

Will looked Lord Spelford deep in the eyes, jaw set, as if he were challenging him. If only he could; if only things were fair, and he were free to fight this man with everything he had...

Spelford merely smiled, like Will had said something amusing. He flapped his hand lazily in the air, carelessly telling the men to draw Will back. Still smirking, he paced towards Elizabeth again, and to Will it was as if he were stalking, preparing for the spring.

_No! Not her!_ He seethed in his mind, limbs tightening. _Get back!_

Ever so casually, Spelford tipped his head to Will, a look of soft contentment on his face, before speaking to Elizabeth again.

"Captain Turner has already experienced a bit of torture at our hands. I don't think it would be fair if we couldn't demonstrate a little to you as well, my dear."

_Not her! Please, not her..._

Hobson, the burly man behind Elizabeth, now tightened his hold on her, eyes gleaming as he brought his mouth closer to her neck, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Elizabeth struggled angrily, teeth gritted; her rage and disgust seemed to come off her like heat. "I would be glad to carry out the punishment, my lord," the man purred lewdly, making no mistake as to what his intent was.

A spasm of rage shook Will, a twinge of fear following. He knew better than anyone how strong Elizabeth was... but could her spirit hold for something like this?

But Spelford rolled his eyes at Hobson like he had said something childish. "Must things always be so vulgar with you, Hobson? A dangerous spitfire walks into our mist, and your only thought is to slake your lust? Disappointing, disappointing... I had different ideas in mind.

"You see, gentlemen... if she is willing to look like a man... then surely she must be willing to die like one."

The explosion inside Will was no longer hot; ice now ran along his spine, cutting off all his hope for Elizabeth to escape from this ordeal alive. He looked at her fearfully; suddenly she seemed so small to him, so fragile... she was like a songbird any of these men could crush with their bare hands.

Mercer fondled the whip in his hands, stroking it as if it were a beloved pet. With a nod from Spelford, Elizabeth was hoisted up under both arms by a pair of soldiers and dragged to one of the pillars surrounding the area. Roughly the soldiers pressed her against the stone, forcing her neck into an awkward angle as they tied her hands around it. Through it all, she made not a sound, not a single whimper of fear, and though his fury, Will felt a glow of pride for his brave lady.

Spelford twitched a finger towards Will. "Bring him closer; I wouldn't want him to miss this." The soldiers obliged.

"Pain is a fascinating area of study, gentlemen. It fells men, it brings them to heel. Some might call it the threshold between life and death- you either want it one way or another, anything to get out of that horrific state of pain. Of course, it is physical torture of which most think of... but as of late, I have drawn more attention to pain's emotional aspects..." Spelford stepped back, away from the tangle of soldiers. Gesturing to Mercer, he said, "Do as you must."

Mercer grinned, uncoiling his whip. "Free her of her garments," he said to the soldiers holding Elizabeth to the pillar. Roughly they stripped her jacket off her, throwing the effects she had stowed underneath it to the side; her waistcoat followed in the same matter, until all she had covering her upper body was a thin white shirt. The arch of her back was trembling; in her tense poise for what was ahead, she was uncertain as to what would happen next. With nervous glances, the solders looked at Mercer.

"The shirt too," he said sneeringly. Just as Elizabeth cried out in furious protest, the garment was ripped away from her spine, torn to hang limply from her arms. Will gritted his teeth in anger and fear; there had been many an occasion where he had imagined her bare skin, but never in a situation such as this. He could see her pressing her face to the stone pillar, her hunched shoulders betraying the rage and shame she felt at having to submit to such a degrading act. Her golden back, marred in a few places from old battle scars, was exposed to the surrounding soldiers, and to Mercer's whip.

Mercer tightened his grip on this thick black coil now, twisting it to unravel the tangles. He looked at Spelford, waiting for the command. With a curt nod from the lord, it was given.

A swoosh of air, a crack; Will's heart faltered and thundered. The whip sliced across Elizabeth's back with a deafening slap that echoed across the courtyard.

"_No!_" Will's shout clamored with the whip's resonation. Blood dripped down Elizabeth's back, and a dark, icy tempest clashed within him; he struggled against the men holding him, vainly trying to break away from them.

A stinging pain burned on his cheek scarcely a second later, the action so quick he barely had time to register it. Suddenly Mercer's face loomed into his own, eyes gleaming maliciously. "Silence, Turner, or I might just increase the strength of my blows upon her." He stepped back to Elizabeth and brought the whip down on her again; her whole body visibly tensed from the pain. With awkwardness she turned her head to the side, but the previous fire in her countenance was gone now; the only one she seemed to see was Will, and it was to him that the softness in her eyes was directed. Her message was completely clear to Will: _Don't worry. I'll be fine._

Deep down Will knew she wouldn't be; he knew they would break her, claw at her until she lay still on the ground. But as they gazed at each other in that split second, the only response he could give to her was the love he felt for her, his admiration of how brave she was, his encouragement to strengthen her. That moment lasted an eternity, and it sent hope soaring through them both, glowing in their wounded souls.

But a cruel smack of the whip scattered their connection; Elizabeth's eyes squeezed tightly as a new gash brightened on her skin, and that cold fear was thrust back into Will's heart. The weight in his chest became like a stone; he was hardly aware of it beating as he watched Elizabeth shudder from yet another blow.

Again, again, again... it seemed like Will would never be jaded to seeing that viper-like coil slash through the air, tearing into Elizabeth over and over, like it was injecting her with venom. She was getting weaker; now and again she emitted a soft moan as the whip dug into previous cuts. Bloody welts covered her back like a spiderweb; scarlet droplets dotted the floor and stained the white scraps of her shirt as Mercer brought the whip sailing through the air.

It seemed Mercer was relentless. After twenty strikes he paused to rest his arm, flexing it theatrically; after a few moments he was right back at it again, striking Elizabeth with vicious precision and strength.

... 28... 29... 30... Each attack of the whip took an eternity, yet at the same time so quick and brutal that Elizabeth hardly had the chance to cry out in pain. A soundless roar of indescribable fury pounded throughout every ounce of Will's being; he never stopped trying to break free of the men holding him, always fighting against their steel-like arms to get to Elizabeth and shield her from the black fire of Mercer's weapon. The laces of scars on his own back still burned deep, but he cared nothing for his own pain and weariness; he only wanted to be in Elizabeth's place now, adding all her agony to his own, keeping her safe and strong.

To some, Will might seem a violent man. He'd trained in the sword, he'd killed more men than he wished to count- unavoidable downsides in a pathless life like his own. There was almost a nonchalant manner to the way he fought, thrusting blades into as many men as he could reach; and after all, there had been that significant factor in that quite a few of his adversaries had been unable to die- he was not afraid to hurt them. When Barbossa's cursed pirates attacked Port Royal so long ago, he had sprung to the town's defense without hesitation, throwing hatchets and tearing them out of bodies with reckless abandon. Fighting the doomed sailors of the _Flying Dutchman_ had been much the same; he had fought side by side with former allies, cutting through the throng of barnacles and seaweed, barely having to think about the actions. But that had been different; Will had not seen them as men, but as monsters. He had been able to hurt them if he kept his mind away from the fact that they had once been mortal. If he kept his mind on what the beasts had done to his loved ones, then he could press on. But he did not necessarily like killing; it was a skill he had acquired, and one he played well, but it was not enjoyable to him. In his mind, he saw those who bled at the end of his blade as having deserved it. But harming innocents... killing for the sake of killing... those were completely different situations entirely, of which he would have no part in.

But seeing Elizabeth cry out... the crimson blood blossoming like the petals of a rose from the thorn-like whip... Mercer's stiff satisfaction... the soldiers' hungry approval... and over in the corner, Spelford watching with amusement, arms crossed comfortably... and he himself only being able stand there helplessly, watching the whole sadistic, sickening ordeal... an inferno blazed inside Will the likes of which he had never felt before. It singed at his heart, burned away at his carefully guarded soul. It could barely be contained within him; any second it seemed it would ignite the entire courtyard, destroying everyone there who dared to harm Elizabeth. He wanted them to burn, shriek, cringe in fear... he wanted to tear at them, crush them as they had done to him, and were doing to her now. He wanted to kill them... an awful desire that shook him to his very core, enthralling and horrifying him at the same time. An infallibly noble part of him kept this raging hell in check, but even Will's golden spirit trembled in the face of this new hatred and fury.

Spelford's eyes were on Will now, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a self-satisfied smirk. The lord seemed to be able to see his torment; he took pleasure in it. Will glared back at him, gritting his teeth in a barely suppressed snarl. Spelford's gloved fingers traced the handle of the blade at his side, with a slow and deliberate idleness. A mocking taunt. A challenge. The whip hit Elizabeth again, her resounding cry piercing the moment.

The inferno erupted; the words enflamed Will's throat as he spat them out at Spelford. "You bastard! Why don't you have a go at me, then?! Let her go! Do what you will with me. She deserves none of this! Torture me instead! Kill me!" His head buzzed; he was hardly aware of what he was saying, only that he wanted Elizabeth to be saved. "Take me, you bastard!"

Spelford didn't answer, didn't even blink; the serene smile remained on his face.

It was then Will understood. _This_ was his torture: to watch the woman he loved, the woman he had abandoned, be hurt, most likely killed, right in front of his eyes. To know that it was because of him. To have her back in his arms for a moment, only to be snatched away forever. But this pain was not only from this horrific spectacle in front of him; all his crushed dreams, all his old anger and sadness, all the pangs that his broken heart had struggled with since his parting with Elizabeth was part of the torrent inside him. All his confused, mangled feelings were being brought to light now, emotions that he had fought for so long to hide away. With a few well-placed blows, Spelford was bringing those walls crashing down; he was destroying him from the inside out. Will's crazed, distraught protests only proved to Spelford the agony he was going through, that his plot was going exactly as it was supposed to. Such simple, cruel cleverness!

With violent force, Will twisted himself out of the guard's arms before they could do anything, and hurled himself at Spelford, all comprehensible thought vanishing from his mind. But he could not even touch the lord; the soldiers had thrown themselves on top of him and seized him before he could even attempt to get his hands around that lace-covered throat. Mercer turned away from Elizabeth and brought his whip down repeatedly on Will, attacking every part of him that could be reached. Old cuts that Elizabeth had so carefully cared for opened again, and this time Will could feel sharp flashes of pain. His muscles stiffened, and he closed his eyes tightly in a vain attempt to block out the physical and emotional torment. The slashes of the whip blurred together; he could not tell if the flogging lasted for a minute or an hour. Mercer kept at it until Spelford spoke softly. "Stop." It managed to be both a suggestion and a command at the same time.

Will's breaths came in gasps; his arms trembled in the soldier's clutches. Wildly he turned his head to face Elizabeth again, to see her looking back at him fearfully. Blood plastered her hair to her cheeks; she was leaning her head against the pillar, too exhausted to keep it upright. Her eyes were tired and ghostlike; she knew now what was at stake. She knew now that they both would die. Neither of them could even hope to muster up a smile of encouragement.

Will's strength suddenly left him in a rush, and he finally eased his muscles in utter weariness. His head drooped down, the tangled curls of hair falling into his face. All was lost now. He had failed to save Elizabeth. She would die... and he could do nothing.

Spelford strode over to Will and patted his slumped shoulder as if thanking a comrade. "Good man." Will could not even glance at him; he hardly stiffened under the touch of the gloved hand.

Submission. Defeat. Fallen. Whatever it could be called, Will had lost. His pride, his honour, his life, his hope, his heart... gone. Elizabeth, gone. He had no sense of anything; he was nothing more than a charred soul. Burned-out to nothingness. That fiery anger had brought him down, leaving nothing but an ashen ghost of a man. A boy.

Elizabeth was beaten again... her cries were little more than moans... yet somehow they were deafening, echoing throughout Will's empty spirit. His heart didn't just break in two; it crumbled, was hacked away at bit by treacherous bit, the scattered, dull remains nothing but shadowed stone, numb and unbearably heavy. To have it be torn from his chest would have been a less torturous ordeal.

Another slash, another... and this time there was no sound from Elizabeth; she sagged against the pillar, her legs giving out from under her. Her body seemed to shatter. With two more relentless cracks of the whip, her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side in the lilt of unconsciousness. Will felt as though his senses had been brought feebly back, freezing. His wrung-out mind swept up whispers of thought... _no_... _fallen_... _dead_... _Elizabeth_...

The next events passed by in a nightmarish haze; Will felt as though he himself were in a state of uncomprehending unconsciousness. Spelford raised a hand... Elizabeth was untied from the pillar, and she collapsed to the bloodstained floor like a torn rag doll... Will was suddenly floating towards her without willing himself to... he was kneeling beside her destroyed figure, instinct drawing his hands to her... the cruel iron arms grabbed him and dragged him away... he was being carried though the dark corridors like it was a current... he was flung inside his cell, the bone-jarring landing stirring his senses only slightly... and Spelford was smirking at him.

"I would have killed you myself, lad... but personally, I feel this is a much better option. Why have you die when you can experience your beloved's death firsthand? Why not have you try to save her as she saved you, only to have you fail? Why not have her fade away in your very arms?"

Elizabeth was practically tossed into the cell, right into his arms. Her body, so fragile and battered in his hands, was both scorching hot and terribly, ghostly cold. Will pressed her close to him, staring into her stone-like face, hardly noticing Spelford staring at him or the clank of the cell door closing. All he was aware of was the broken body in his hands, the scarlet blood soaking her skin, her heart fluttering like a bird under his touch. He willed with all the tormenting faith he had left for it to keep beating.

Shaking, he pressed a hand lightly to her cheek, almost afraid to touch her. Hardly opening his mouth, he tried to speak to her, the words half-dead on his tongue. "Elizabeth." A dull throbbing resonated in his mind; no words could come up other than the ones that were springing from his throat. "Elizabeth, please. No, Elizabeth..."

She was pale, so pale, except for the viciously red blood smearing her skin. With fumbling fingers, Will made an attempt to wrap the remains of her shirt around her thin, mangled figure. His eyes locked on her face, and suddenly tears that never fell were pulsing from them, scoring down his cheeks and mixing with the blood on Elizabeth's face. He pressed her close to him, holding her limp body to his own, gritting his teeth to stop the sob from ripping out of him. Rocking her back and forth with a slow, agonized tilt, he buried his crumpled face into the crook of her neck, drenching her with his tears.

No matter how many times the course of life had shoved him to the ground, Will had cried only rarely. Now the tears kept coming, despite his natural instinct to fight them. Elizabeth was withering away in his hands; their positions as rescuer and prisoner had been so cruelly flipped, though the wounds were carved into Will's back as well. What did he care? How could he feel anything that wasn't this once brave, spirited woman in his arms, crushed and dying?

The barriers that had held them back for so long had been swept away as if by a breeze; the blows of the whip had brought every last defense down. Will kissed her lips with an almost savage fervor, his crazed desperateness singeing her cold, flickering being. A kiss to wake the princess. But he had stopped believing in that kind of magic long ago.

_Why not have you try to save her as she saved you, only to have you fail? Why not have her fade away in your very arms?_

Will had no grip on time- it could have been hours or days, but he held Elizabeth to him all the while, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. Words were spouting out of him unbidden, names he had formerly only used in his mind: "My darling... my angel... my friend..." Please. Please.

Her blood had started to dry on his hands when at last her eyelids fluttered; it seemed to take her too much strength to keep them open. Her lips moved, but no sound came out; she tried again, emitting only a shallow, painful sigh. Finally, she managed to murmur, in a voice so faint and hoarse that it was hard for Will to make out what she was saying. "Will... Jack..."

Will swallowed, clutching her close. "It's Will. I'm here."

Elizabeth's eyes opened so slightly, gazing at him; a look of pleading tugged at her features. Once more, she spoke. "Will." Ever so feebly, she raised a shaking hand to his face. "Will... don't... leave me... again."

Just how his mangled heart found the way to break yet again, Will didn't know. With tears frozen to his cheeks, he weakly shook his head back and forth, never drawing his eyes away from Elizabeth. "No, I'm not leaving you."

Her fingers brushed his jaw, grazed his lips. Her eyes were tethered to his for the briefest moment, hope shining in them, before she fell away in his arms once more.

The night faded into the grayest of mornings, and Will held Elizabeth the entire time. Over and over, a solemn oath was repeated in his mind, the message never losing its meaning. Occasionally it was whispered aloud as he watched her wither away before his eyes, in his very grasp. As Elizabeth started to fade away, Will kept to his one last promise, what he failed to do last time and had never forgiven himself for:

"I'm not leaving you."

* * *

_Well... there it is._


End file.
